


The Slave's Game

by Tarasque



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alien Sex, Aliens Made Me Do It, Consensual Sex, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lima Syndrome, Lots of plot, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Non-consensual sex, Poe Dameron hurts so pretty, Porn With Plot, Rimming, slavefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 76,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6862732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarasque/pseuds/Tarasque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A last-minute glitch in an otherwise smooth mission leads an amnesiac, wounded Poe to be sold as a slave. He's lucky that he's still so valuable as a pilot, but maybe not so lucky that he's still so handsome.<br/>Meanwhile, the system he's ended in might turn out to be more than it looks, and Finn and the whole of the Resistance might jeopardise everything to keep on looking for him.</p><p>Or : what happens when I read slavefics on AO3 and decide to write my own as a mean to escape writer's block (over 70,000 words, that's what happens, argh). NOT A NICE STORY, read the tags. But also a lot of plot, can't help it. Why else would I add Galaxy geopolitics, starship aerobatics, alien biology and ethnography, Force trees and the balance of the Force to what is basically a dark fantasy of the hurt/comfort type?</p><p>The story is finished, I should manage daily updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I can’t believe it’s going according to plan,” Pava says as they disconnect from the destroyer main comp. “We’ve got everything!”

“Yeah!” Finn says, low but unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Cadet training locations, size of teaching and fighting staff, personal files! We’ve got their families in there. Families!”

“We’ll get them out, Finn,” Pava says fervently. “We can do it. Oh, I can’t believe it!”

Poe wonders why he’s not feeling as thrilled as the other two. They got what they went looking for, their figuring of the destroyers patrols was on point, they’re beginning to retrace their steps to the airlocks to which they managed, to his vague surprise, to hook their ships. That was the weak link in the plan, but it worked, so why is he feeling so uneasy?

“Poe?” says Finn. “Is there a problem?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just – ah, I guess the last year made me a little paranoid, is all. You’re right, you guys. Everything’s going g- _shit_.”

Finn has been looking at Poe and can’t see the hull wall as he reacts, crouching down with his blaster at the ready.

“Fuck,” says Pava, who saw and understood. “ _Fuck_. Poe, you take my Y-wing.”

“What’s the matter?” Finn asks, still watching the corridors but slowly easing from his battle stance. Then he finally turns and registers the pattern of the code lights around the lock. Poe can see his shoulders slump and his head go down before he takes in a large gulp of air and looks Poe in the eyes.

“Your ship unhooked?” he asks Poe, eyes searching. Obviously hoping he’s wrong.

“Probably. Always was the tricky point in that plan, eh? Using these old clunkers and try to fasten to an enemy ship? Anyway there’s no way I can pass that airlock now.”

“But – there are only – can the Y-wing hold three people?”

“It can’t,” Pava says. “No way.”

“Not enough oxygen for three, Finn,” Poe says, trying to smile.

“You take my ship,” Pava says again.

The smile comes easily this time. “No way, girl. I messed up, I pay.”

“Fucking hell, Dameron! You’re much more valuable, don’t you realise, you laserbrained flyboy? You. Take. My. Ship.”

“I’m also your Commander, Pava. I care for my pilots and my pilots fucking obey my orders. Now, _Lieutenant_ , you take Finn with you and you get the fuck away before the next Stormtrooper patrol finds us all and we botch the mission. I was the one to study the destroyer plans and I can find my way around here. You can’t.”

“What?” Finn’s not yelling but it’s close. “Dammit, Poe, _you_ can find your way around here? What about me, uh? I’m staying with you. I’m fucking staying with you, and you won’t order me otherwise. I’m the one who resists orders, don’t you remember? Or, or better. You just go with Jess. I’m the expendable one, not a pilot, not an officer. Leave me here.”

This is going to end badly. They’re all going to get caught and Finn’s plan, Finn’s wonderful plan that has nearly been going perfectly will go down the drain. They’ll catch _Finn_ and Poe can’t bear the idea of what they’re going to do to their wayward Stormtrooper and he can’t, he _won’t_ let it happen.

“Finn,” he says, “listen. I can manage. I’ll steal a TIE. You can’t do that all by yourself, can you? And these cadets, these children, you have to be there for them. It was your plan, Finn, and you can still get it done. Steal these children back, bring them to the Resistance or to their families. They’ll need _you_ , they’ll need someone who understands what they went through.” He sees Finn’s gaze waver, knows he’s won. “Won’t they?” he asks, his voice soft.

But Finn’s jaw is clenching and there’s this line on his brow Poe knows from all the times Finn managed to resist higher ups against all his conditioning and his fears. Finn takes Poe’s arm and pulls him a few steps away from Pava. “Poe,” he mutters furiously. “There are four decks between us and the TIE docks. Four decks, dozens of regular doors on each one, each door with a code that’s going to change from the ones we memorised, and four seals with reinforced security. You can’t do this. I bet you know.”

“Well,” says Poe, not really able to lie under Finn’s accusing gaze. “I’ll try. I’ll take that chance. And you won’t help by staying here.”

“If you get caught, the mission’s fucked.”

“Same for each of us, ain’t it? I won’t get –”

“Hell, Poe!”

“Yeah. Sorry. Just don’t wait too long to retrieve those kids, uh? I’ll – give me your emergency rations. I think I can hold long enough.”

Finn clenches his jaw, then sighs angrily, nods and motions to his pockets. Poe’s won and he’s never felt so overwhelmingly sad about anything else. Finn’s eyes are glinting when he finally looks up, ration bars in hand.

“Don’t –” rasps Finn, then he has to stop. “Just don’t kill yourself, Poe. No suicide run. Promise me you’ll try to get to these TIEs?”

It’s easy to fall back into the reckless hero persona. Poe smiles a dazzling smile and slaps Finn’s biceps. “You know me,” he says. “I’d do anything to fly another TIE.”

Finn traps Poe’s hand on his arm, snorts and shakes his head.

“Here are my ration bars,” says Pava who crept closer. “Finn, we’ve got to go. Try to bring back the TIE in one piece this time, Dameron.”

Finn only grips Poe’s hand tighter. “Poe…” he says.

Poe probably won’t have another chance and would hate to go without having tried. So he does. Well, clears his voice and tries. “Finn,” he says. “I know you don’t – well, never could be sure that – ah, even if you don’t really feel like that, since I might – shit. Finn, please, kiss me?”

Something like a sob escapes Finn’s lips. “Finally,” he breathes, then hooks his hands around Poe’s neck and torso and locks their lips together. The kiss is long and tender and soon turns to passionate and Poe never imagined Finn could kiss like that, with just the right amount of tongue and that hint of teeth he didn’t know he craved. At some time Poe realises they’re flush against each other and even grinding their hips a little. Finn’s probably at least half hard even if it’s not easy to say with all the sturdy layers of clothes between them. At least Poe is. He’s absolutely, dizzyingly hard and he moans and tries to deepen the kiss even more. There’s moisture on his cheeks and he doesn’t know if it comes from Finn’s tears or his own.

Pava puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Then he’s standing all by himself in the corridor while the lights around the second airlock blink in a completely standard sequence and Finn and Pava are gone.

/

Finn can’t bring himself to look at Jess. He hates that he agreed to leave Poe there in the hands of the enemy. Hates himself even more because he can’t think of anything else to ask than some question about Poe’s chances. When he knows they amount to none. Or nearly none. Or maybe he doesn’t know.

Jess chuckles. “Now _that_ was some kiss,” she says, which makes Finn feel so thankful, because it’s not a conversation about Poe’s chances. “Do you always make out so passionately at home? I might want to watch!”

 “Believe it or not, that was our first kiss,” Finn mumbles.

“What? But everyone thought – why, Finn, why? Fucking hell, you, it’s been nearly one year, you bunk together! You share clothes! You, you keep looking at each other, like, like, oh I don’t know, like the two greatest fucking idiots ever!”

Finn takes his head in his hands. “I know,” he says, “I know. It’s – shit, do you think it’s easy, trying to figure out everything in that fucking base? Dammit, Jess, among Stormtroopers, it wasn’t, we never did it –”

“What, you mean you didn’t –”

“I mean we never did it like that! When we were in the mood, we made it known! And clearly! Not by being, I don’t know, fucking nice and overly friendly and sort of privately shy and awkward! Someone higher ranking, he’d just tell you he wanted to fuck and if you didn’t feel like it you just damn tried to edge away! And if you wanted it you said yes sir and went at it! Shit.”

“Oh, Finn. But it’s been one year! You must have figured it’s not the same here?”

“Force, Jess, you think I’m dumb? ‘Course I figured. He’s still a commander, huh.”

“Hm. Old habits die hard and all that?”

“How could I ever ask out a _commander_ , Jess?”

“Oh shit. I’m – I’m sorry if I can’t help laughing, Finn. It’s – it’s just so ridiculous! You realise one of the reasons that Poe didn’t make his move is that he’s higher ranking? Being all noble and shit and not wanting to impose himself, Stars!”

“Jess?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think this kiss is going to be our last?”

“Shit. I hope not, Finn, I sure hope not.”

She’s patting his back in the cramped space of the Y-wing and he hates the pity in her voice.

/

Poe nearly does it.

Of course he’s never believed he would, which is why he lay low for as long as his rations held – water’s surprisingly easy to find in a destroyer when nobody’s looking for you. He found corners and unused storerooms and spent his time wondering whether he wouldn’t be better off ending it nice and clean. A suicide run, as Finn called it. No risk of spilling out the beans that way.

But there were too many promises in that kiss. And a promise of his own made to Finn, too, to hold on, to live, to fly away. So he held long enough, nearly two weeks according to his watch, and then he made his way down the decks. Crawling along air ducts, watching doors from hidden corners with his heart in his throat, waiting for enough people to type in the code that he has the sequence figured out. Door by door, deck by deck, making it to the docks, even managing to knock out some poor guy and steal his uniform.

Of course that’s when he finally dares to hope that they spot him. Stormtroopers aren’t pilots, they don’t climb unaccompanied into Starfighters. The white armour probably stands out like a sore thumb and someone shoots at him. Misses, of course, the average Stormtrooper’s aim being what it is. But the blast shatters something close and a large fragment hits him in the face. He stays stunned for one moment too long, feeling the blood run between his probing fingers, trying to figure whether his eye was hurt.

They catch him. Of course they do, as if he had a chance.

His old acquaintance the torture chair hasn’t changed. Neither has Poe’s need to goad his captors. But they don’t even react, don’t even seriously try to beat some answers out of him. His head wound hurts more than their blows and their tasers and after a while they leave him alone.

Which means someone Force-sensitive is coming. Who is he kidding? It means Kylo Ren is coming, because there’s no way in hell he’d leave Poe to anyone else.

He tries to console himself by telling himself the mission’s probably done. Stormtrooper kids freed and flooding every Resistance home. But that’s not such a comfort. Poe knows too much, could still do so much harm. He tries to tell himself he might hope to hold somewhat better against Ren than the first time. He’s trained with Skywalker, after all, they both did, Finn and himself. But while it’s been established that they have some smattering of Force-sensitivity, what Poe has is only what he’s been feeling around him and using all his life when he flies, nothing more, nothing less. No way he could withstand the onslaught of someone so powerful as Kylo Ren.

There’s one thing he’s been thinking all along. One last, desperate thing he believes he can do. So when he feels the searing cold of Ren’s mind entering his own, he makes himself do it.

/

Leia Organa, _General_ Leia Organa pulls Finn close and holds him tight when he feels the madness is too much. It’s overwhelming and unbelievable and exactly what he needs to go on for another day.

“It was the right thing to do,” she says, believing it.

“Yes,” he says as he watches the children. “He probably gave his life for them. We should honour that. It was worth it.”

But he’s not sure. Was it right, exchanging Poe Dameron for a bunch of broken kids? It’s easy to say so when looking at the rare ones who tossed their conditioning out of the window right away. Who began laughing and learning and hugging and went back to their families or jumped into the arms of whoever welcomed them. ‘The Finns’, the Resistance assigned personnel call them. Maybe it’s enough. But it makes Finn hurt even more inside because there are so many times during his more than twenty years as a Stormtrooper when he’s been the other ones. The kids who were taught that depending on someone outside of the chain of command is a weakness. Those who will bite at a proffered hand. Those, also, who when told that they’re free will go wild and restless and harm themselves.

Finn’s never been like the ones who try to hurt others as much as they’ve been hurt but he sees their wounds, and remembers, and understands.

He finds himself in Poe’s quarters – well, his own, only his own now, but Poe’s half of the room is still exactly as he left it. It’s someone like Poe the kids would need, Finn thinks – again. Someone who would laugh and smile because of who they are, not because of who they need to be. Someone who would give them names and tell stories and maybe sing a ridiculous song. Poe’s tri-harp case is propped up in a corner and Finn kneels next to it, brushes off most of the dust with a hand.

“You feel something?” asks Rey from the door.

Again.

“Why,” he yells, surprised at his own irrepressible anger. “Why should I? Why do you and Skywalker keep asking that? I’m nothing special! Why don’t _you_ go looking for Poe with the Force, if you think it’s worth more than a bantha’s fart?”

Rey’s features go soft and calm and carefully blank, as if she were dealing with some frightened kid – well, she is, she might be, Finn is fucking scared shitless of what the First Order did, no, might still be doing to Poe. “Because I don’t share a Force bond with Poe,” she answers.

“Fucking banthashit! Poe and I just _trained_ together. We were nothing special! Dammit, Rey. You’re the strong one.”

“It’s not a question of being strong. The Force links all beings together, some more strongly than others. Leia and Han. Master Luke and Leia. Him and his father, too. Even you and I. We’re friends, so it makes the Force flow more freely between us. And Luke says he never saw two people more strongly connected than you and Poe. Really, don’t you feel something? Anything?”

Her mask of serenity has cracked. She looks hopeful. Pleading, maybe. And he can’t ignore the feeling of grief anymore. Because if he should feel anything through the Force then –

“I can’t feel a thing,” he whispers. “If what I felt before was more than – than normal, regular, well, love, it was love, for my part – fucking hell, Rey, it’s hard enough as it is, don’t, just don’t make that face! Force, if we shared something it’s not there anymore. I – it’s blank. Like what made Poe isn’t there anymore.”

“But, but Master Luke said – and Leia, too. Did you _feel_ him die?”

“Shit, Rey! Couldn’t you – I didn’t. And don’t look so hopeful! It’s not as if I’d have known what to look for. Maybe he died, he probably died and I didn’t even know enough to feel it and, and try to be there for him in the end, uh?”

“No,” says Rey, thoughtfully. “From what Leia says you’d have definitely known.”

“Then help me!” howls Finn, his control shattering. “Rey! If he’s not dead, and I can’t feel him, just help me!”

“Yes,” answers Rey, sitting down on the ground behind Finn and hugging him. “Why not. Let’s look for Poe together.”

He lets her. Tries blindly to project himself out to Poe, feels Rey’s strength pushing him further and harnessing him, making him more focused. Then she sees the place where Poe used to dwell inside Finn, sees the blankness. “Oh Finn. Force, Finn,” she croaks, her voice breaking.

She draws a shuddering breath and he can feel her centre herself before she pushes Finn further. And she laughs. “There’s something inside the nothingness,” she says. And there is. Something small, so small, like a will-o-the-wisp inside a fog, or like a single ember. Tiny, and red, and burning. Finn extends all his being towards the pinprick of light and suddenly here it is. Maybe Poe, maybe not, but _pain_. Pain making his brain pound against his skull and twisting his insides and burning his eyes and pain pulsating around until his whole body is but that red hot pulse and Finn can’t, can’t stand it and shuts himself off and away from it, and the man behind the pain with it.

He’s crying.

Rey’s laughing.

“He’s alive,” she says. “He’s alive!”

BB-8’s rolling in circles around them and beeping excitedly and maybe today Finn will finally find the energy to begin to learn binary and try to understand a bit of the droid’s own grief – and hopes.

/

There’s a question being asked in his mind and it hurts, cold and searing hot at the same time. He can’t remember the answer. The thing in his mind pushes deeper, makes him look for it. He can’t even remember the question.

Someone curses. It’s not in his mind but in his ears, the sound of a voice. He tries to look although one of his eyes, where his face hurts the most, doesn’t open. Maybe the eye is damaged, maybe it’s just caked with blood from the slash going from his eyebrow to his jaw. He can’t remember how that wound came to be.

It’s a blessing that he can’t remember. That, at least, he knows because of the intense relief he feels at the thought. Before, he’d known why. He knows, too, that the masked man – human, he thinks, yes, definitely human – towering above him is to be feared. Even if he can’t answer the questions the man’s not even voicing. Especially if he can’t. Again, he’d known why before. But before what?

His head and torso are half pulled up, straining against his restraints and he realises that it’s the man’s hand, not even touching him, that is making him do so. Then the hand moves away in a violent jerk and his head slams back against the metal chair.

“Useless,” says the man. “Doesn’t even remember his own name. You!”

The vicious rage and hate in the voice make him jump against the chair. Thankfully, the masked man is moving his gloved hand towards a white armoured soldier.

“You fired that blaster in the dock, trooper? Is that you?”

The trooper appears unable to talk, seemingly choked by an invisible force. “What did you do!” howls the masked man. “Damn those Stormtroopers and their blasted aim! You hit his head! He doesn’t know who he is! Who I am!”

Nothing touches the trooper but his feet leave the ground and his head hits the walls and his body dangles and rolls and rushes around, the armour clanging as it hits the ceiling then the edge of the chair then some hidden control panel – sparks all around – and the walls again. After a while the trooper’s arms and feet bend at impossible angles and the body finally slumps in a pile on the ground. It doesn’t move.

His cuffs click open with another motion of the masked man’s hand. He doesn’t feel relief at that. Only terror. His body raises in the air and he knows he’s going to die.

There’s a small part of him that whispers dying is the best thing that could happen. And a bigger part that doesn’t want to.

/

His head hurts.

“I can’t believe that didn’t kill him,” says a voice.

His head hurts too much to open his eyes and try to figure out who talked.

“He’s got strong bones, General. What shall we do with him? Airlock?” asks a second voice.

He knows what airlocks are. Airlocks are on ships and he used to know about ships. Before. Airlocks, in relation to his present situation, are bad.

He tries to open his eyes.

His head hurts so bad that opening his eyes doesn’t change one thing. What he sees are flashing lights and dark spots. His ears ring.

“Or do we wait for Lord Ren?” Second voice, again.

Yes, he thinks. You wait. No airlock.

“I have a better idea,” says First Voice. “Slave market. And then we leak out a holo. Carefully chosen, no clues as to where or what, except for Dameron being sold as a slave. I have a feeling it will take a few people off our back while they scour the whole of the Outer Rim looking for him. The girl Rey and that defective Stormtrooper at least. Maybe Organa, too. Who knows, if they don’t bother us anmore maybe it will even stop the _Lord_ Kylo Ren from obsessing so much about them?”

There are names in there. Names he should be trying to figure out. Clues to _before_.

But his head hurts.

/

Finn spends months waiting for the pang of bottomless grief that will tell him Poe is dead. Nobody in so much pain can live that long.

Then one day he realises he’s built a protective shell around the blankness that is Poe. It doesn’t make it or the terror inside less present. It just makes it easier to live around it. To look at BB-8 following Rey around because Finn is too much of a coward to be able to befriend him. To smile and care for the kids. Maybe even to sing them one of Poe’s songs.

Rey rushes in as he’s singing one of those songs to a bunch of kids who obviously wish they’d be somewhere else. But Finn has learned the hard way that a lot of them still need to be ordered around, so he ordered them to listen.

“Finn,” Rey gasps, completely out of breath. “You come with me. Right now.”

“Wh–”

“Poe,” she says and Finn runs out with her.

Poe’s not there. It’s a holo, blown up as large as possible on the command centre projector. Bluish, taken without much light and obviously from a distance. An uneven line of people, all species, all looking down. Walking. Shackled.

“Slave market,” mutters Finn, who remembers seeing a few in his days as a Stormtrooper.

General Organa dims parts of the scene until a lonely human stays in focus. Poe, obviously Poe, though even in the few seconds of holorecording Finn can feel that dreaded blankness emanate from him. It’s something in his eyes, he thinks. Or maybe just the way he’s so beaten up. His hair is matted with blood and there’s a deep gash going across the left side of his face from eyebrow to jaw. He’s got a rudimentary splint on one of his arm and doesn’t seem to notice, isn’t even trying to hold the arm in a position that would alleviate the pain.

“Is there any clue as to when that was taken? Or where it is?” Captain Kun asks from a corner.

“We’ll run a statistical analysis on the proportion of different species and the details of their equipment,” an aide says. “Maybe it will help narrow down locations. That’s all we can hope for.”

“Who brought this? Anything they can tell?” Finn dares to ask, feeling frantic.

“They died taking it in,” General Organa says. “Finn, I swear, we’ll scour the whole Galaxy if we need, but we’ll find him.”

“We’ll go looking for him,” Kun says. “Stiletto. And Dagger with us.”

All the pilots are here, Finn realises with a pang of affection and pride. And now they’re standing up one by one. “And Blue,” some of them say. “And Red,” say the others.

“For one man?” Admiral Statura asks. “Leia, I know this is Poe Dameron, but the Resistance can’t afford to let go of everything we’re holding together just for him.”

General Organa straightens up and looks at him from the bottom of her grief. He sighs.

“Just another impossible task the Resistance will be doing on top of so many others, then.”

/

Jess Pava finds the next clue.

She’s back from a scouting mission and knows she shouldn’t have made that additional stop on another backward market in another backward planet. But they sell slaves there. Finn tells them Poe is still alive and even if he obviously doesn’t tell everything that still makes something to fight for.

The slave market is there and is as depressing as the hundreds, or so it feels, of others she already inspected. Poe’s not here but could have transited through it. Or not. Who knows.

Her antiquity of a T-70 choses this place of all places to burst a lateral bracketing insulator. They don’t keep such parts anywhere in the whole planet, of course. It has to be made from scratch and Jess is very close to having to sell a kidney to make it happen. As it is, she probably engages more credits than she’s allowed to have it assembled, and it’s still going to take no less than three days. Certainly more, since she really doesn’t have a kidney to sell and they’ll want to milk everything they can from her.

The sleeping arrangements are bad, the ale is even worse and the company is abysmal, inebriated and leering. She leaves in search of a way to pass the time and finally stumbles on a simulator that’s not as antique as the rest of the town. Something that might offer entertainment for a while, since it seems to be set for Starfighters as well as most shuttles and freighters. There’s even a destroyer run but if it’s accurate then she’s the queen of Naboo. She’ll show them, then. What a Resistance pilot can score if she’s got her mind to it.

She scores, yes. But someone went there before and the X-Wing record isn’t that easy to touch. Actually, she _can’t_ reach it although she comes close. She figures someone had a stroke of luck and sets her views on the TIE run. The Resistance sims run a good, if slightly overly standardised protocol and she bets she can do well.

She realises with glee that the sim run was copied line for line and option for option from the Resistance program and sets herself to burst the numbers – to no avail. Someone had a perfect run, no _three_ perfect runs with that sim. Unbreakable.

Someone, probably the same someone, also played with the shuttle settings and let them in a surprisingly aggressive configuration. They broke the record there as well, some incredibly high score again. Which means they attacked Starfighters and _won_ in their sim run.

She knows these settings. Took the place on the sim seat after someone who played exactly like that, all fancy trajectories and showy moves until you realise they’re not fancy or showy, they’re just very exactly timed and perfectly accurate.

The sim’s got a routine that records the best run for each settings and she frantically plays the TIE one, searching, looking for the quirks, the small moves, anything. And it’s there. That manoeuver Poe was the first to deem doable – and that Poe was the only one able to achieve.

She jumps on the sim manager and shakes them for as long as it takes for them to spill that the records were set by a human slave who came in with a trader and his aides three, or was it five? Or nine, they can’t remember, months ago. Then she manages to secure a copy of all recorded runs. It costs her her other kidney – well, it costs a metaphorical kidney from the Resistance accounts, the sum so high it probably means they’ll be on synthetic rations for the rest of the year. Then she calls the base and sure enough, only hours later three ships materialise out of hyperspace. Nondescript old fighters because the Resistance likes to keep believing their pilots are not instantly recognisable, one Karé’s, another Wexley’s, the last Iolo’s with Finn hitching a ride.

Jess never saw Finn so frantic nor so aggressive. It’s him who manages to get the name of the slave dealer out of the manager – just with the sheer strength of his will, no money asked nor offered. When they finally set their hands on the dealer, a shabby, smallish Makurth whose two lower horns are badly chipped and split, Finn reveals a side that Jess hopes never to see again. She’s known abstractly that he spent most of his life in the First Order and only a meagre year and a half among the Resistance, but it didn’t prepare her for the way Finn holds himself, not as a mindless Stormtrooper but as someone more dangerous and cunning. There’s a deep rage she can only dimly see under his frozen exterior, a way he stands poised and deadly, clipped tones around a clenched jaw that talk of well-bred, cruel officers who give nothing but could take everything from their prey.

The Makurth flares his nostrils and snorts at Finn’s display but doesn’t go into full combat stance. He’s seen First Order officers before, obviously. Learned to fear them, learned to deal with them. He’s not as easily impressed as the sim manager.

“Won’t take your credits,” he says to Pava when she offers everything she can for details on Poe. “You begin talking of your clients, money becomes scarce afterwards. And won’t take your blaster either, Sir,” he adds to Finn who got his weapon out. “You shoot me, you lose your lead.”

Finn appears ready to kill nonetheless, just to extract his revenge. “You’ve got flimsies, I bet,” he growls. “Flimsies or files from your transactions. I could shoot you here and now and get a good look at your desk, huh? Scare a few of your underlings into giving me what I need.”

“Shoot me, friend. A slave dealer who rats out his clients is dead anyway.”

The next second Finn has a chokehold on the Makurth’s neck and is yelling in his ear. “You motherfucker! It’s my friend you sold! Looked like shit, like he was nearly dying, and you sold him anyway!”

It’s impressive, Jess thinks. Makurths are a predator species, they’re fast and strong and their fangs aren’t things to toy with, and Finn still manages to hold that one down and the guy is actually beginning to look like he’s hurting. She can’t summon any sympathy.

“I don’t sell damaged goods,” groans the dealer, teeth bared in an effort to breathe – or to impress.

“Yeah?” yells Snap, quiet, calm, usually composed Snap who’s finally losing it. “Sure looks like you did! We have holo proof! He had fucking head wounds, Poe had! Blood in his hair and an open gash on his face, a, a broken arm, and he definitely was in your slave line!”

The Makurth coughs as Finn’s hold tightens but maybe he’s laughing too. “Oh,” he rasps. “That one. Got me a nice little pile of gemstones. Yeah, was a bit banged up. We had some cosmetic expenses, know what I mean? But it’s rare to get such a perfect match between a slave’s abilities and a client’s wishes. And the best thing?”

The Makurth stops and sort of grins which makes Finn growl in frustration. Finn’s attention wavers and the dealer twists and gets himself free, a hand going up to catch Finn’s neck.

“Best thing,” he says, “is that it was an anonymous transaction. No idea of who bought your friend.”

Finn’s hand flashes out but it’s a feint as he twists and his opposite elbow connects with some part of the other’s torso. It seems it was the right move because the guy howls and collapses on his knees, panting. Some bit of Stormtrooper combat knowledge, Jess thinks, admiring. Never say they don’t know about non-human species when it’s all about harming them.

“Now,” says Finn, voice low and controlled and deadly. “Tell us what you know or I can _not_ kill you in very inventive ways.” He goes to kick the fallen Makurth in the same spot but Iolo, who Jess knows had some first-hand knowledge of First Order beatings, intervenes.

“Finn,” he urges, looking a little scared. “Stop it. There are other ways of getting the guy to help. We’re not like that.”

“Yeah?” says Finn, teeth bared. “You don’t remember where I’m coming from, Iolo? Who says _I’m_ not like that?”

But he’s breathing deeper, trying to control himself. He still looks deadly, though, and it seems it finally convinces the dealer to yield.

“Okay,” says the Makurth. “Don’t have much to give you but no harm done anyway. I’ve only got the slave specs flimsies, together with a few things about who brought him in. But I guess you won’t be surprised they were First Order guys, will you? Also, you were mentioning payment?”

“Payment,” growls Finn, “is me being with the good guys and not giving you a nice deep slash on your face to match Poe’s.”

The dealer nods and produces several flimsies that Finn snatches from his hands. Iolo catches Finn’s arm on time before his fist lands into the Makurth’s face.

/

Finn’s reading the flimsies aloud and increasingly wishes he’d done it privately. It begins neutral enough, though, with things he can deal with. Poe’s flying abilities come first, described in detail.

“They seem to think they’re dealing with a former First Order TIE pilot?” says Finn. “Perfect TIE scores, excellent X-wing runs but not without flaws, very strong bend towards aggressive flying, compatible with a First Order pilot mindset?” He feels his chest constrict as he adds. “And if it was a false lead? If we were dealing with some other pilot here?”

“Don’t know what happened with the X-Wing run,” answers Wexley, “except that it seems to have been the last one they made him do. But his TIE runs are perfect _for the sim_ , Finn. I remember him telling us after that Jakku debacle that our sim had a flaw, that you could make the sim TIE turn sharper in the three-sides attack than a real fighter could. The recorded run here, it shows someone playing it by rote, doing all the sharp turns. No real TIE pilot would, they’d know, well, feel it’s impossible. Believe me, Finn. That’s Poe. Nobody else can play it that well.”

Finn goes on. Poe’s flying abilities seem to have been his main, ha, selling point. They insist on his qualifications for civilian flying, showcasing his defensive moves and his abilities with shuttles and freighters. And then they come to physical specs and Finn wants to let the flimsy in someone else’s hands and just disappear. Or hit something. Or someone.

The others pilots begin to make fun of it. It’s obvious that it’s laughing or breaking down but Finn can’t. He just can’t.

 _Score for facial features, facial wound notwithstanding, 9.2 out of ten_ , _human standard geometric scale_ , he reads. Someone wolf whistles, probably Jess. _Slight teeth irregularities and chipped eyetooth contribute to the lowered score._  Poe didn’t have any chipped tooth when they said goodbye, Finn knows – he remembers very well exploring said slightly irregular teeth with his tongue. Shit. “Someone scribbled something in the margin here,” he adds. “About irregularities being a factor of attraction for a large subset of human-liking slave owners. It also says the face wound could be used in the same way if left to heal with, it says, with _skill_.”

_Age, estimated 36, plus minus two._

“Ha,” laughs Karé, “they made him older. Didn’t tell them his age, our Poe, didn’t make it easier for them, eh?”

Finn thinks of the blankness that is Poe and thinks maybe he couldn’t tell them. Maybe he didn’t know. And he probably looked older with the marks from the pain and the wounds.

_Reflexes, outstanding._

“You can say that!” yells Jess, looking proud as if she had a hand in that somehow.

“They made another note here,” says Finn, voice flat. “About making sure the slave is properly shackled before approaching for standard care. And something about him having to learn.”

_Other physical abilities, in no condition to test._

“Shit,” says Pava, who doesn’t laugh for a change.

 _Score for general body shape, wounds notwithstanding, 7.4  out of ten, human scale, Giddeons-Paulson 23 features test_. _Positive scores notably include shoulder width, shape of hands and feet, upper leg and pectoral muscles. Negative scores lack of height and size of backside, the rest average._

“Hey, Finn, don’t make that face!” Pava’s smiling again. “It’s true that, hum, that Poe’s ass was always a bit on the wide side for a man, not that anyone’s complaining, uh?”

“Yeah,” laughs Iolo, a little strained. “He told me some people weren’t complaining at all!”

“And same for, uh, the lack of height!” adds Wexley. “Saw him use that to his advantage to pick up boys on a bar rampage, ah, sorry, Finn. Not since he met you, I should add.”

“Yeah,” says Finn. “Some guy here seems to have had the same opinion. About his butt and his height. Scribbled in that the scale measures according to Coruscant aesthetics which aren’t to everyone’s taste.”

Wexley grabs his arm, not unkindly. “Hey, Finn. We mean no harm, uh? Poe would be the first to have fun with that flimsy. Actually, we should keep it to show him when he’s out of danger, might make a nice keepsake.”

“No,” says Finn. “Not if you read further down, won’t make anything nice.”

Now Wexley’s looking concerned. “Then stop reading. Don’t hurt yourself, Finn, that won’t help Poe.”

“There might be something,” objects Finn. “Some clue. I have to. Read that.”

He goes on, wading through increasingly invasive physical assertions and opinions on Poe’s usability. Like something non-sentient, he thinks. Some base droid or some pet.

Nobody’s laughing anymore.

 _Obvious and probably extended previous experience of male on male sex,_ he reads on silently. “Performed well as the passive partner”, he repeats aloud and feels the blood drain from his face. “Testing inconclusive with a female. Conclusion, might provide adequate sexual relief as an aside to an interested master. Placement as a sex slave not recommended because of slightly advanced age and possible violent reactions.”

“Shit,” groans Pava.

“What did we expect?” says Finn, voice finally breaking. “Pretty Poe with his pretty face, sold as a slave. Fucking hell of a place!” he yells and once again Iolo catches his arm just in time to stop him slamming his fist into the duracrete wall.

/

“You can stand up,” says one of the white armoured troopers. It’s a statement, not a question, and the second trooper pulls him up. They strip him off his bloodied, filthy flightsuit and throw civilian clothes at him. He knows what a flightsuit is, he notes distantly. Civilian clothes, too.

They shove their blasters into his ribs and order him to walk. _No suicide run,_ goes a voice in his head, faceless and nameless, someone from before. He could probably manage a suicide sitting, he thinks, and feels tempted. But the voice inside insists and he promised, so he stumbles on even if lying down would perhaps help his head.

/

“What should I do with _that_?” asks the four-horned befanged being in front of him.

“Why,” answers one of the troopers. “Buy him, then sell him again for a higher price? Isn’t that what you do for a living?”

“I don’t deal in damaged goods,” growls the slaver. “I’m a respectable trader. That piece of shit looks like he’s going to die on your hands. Uh, that’s a he, ain’t it?”

“Sure. Come on, Algr’o, even so you can see he’s got a pretty face. Give him a chance!”

“Yeah, a ruined pretty face and lines around his eyes that tell he’s too old for this shit, trooper. What’s your age, slave?”

Slave, he thinks. Some name. Maybe that’s who he was. Some slave who rebelled so badly against his master that he got punished too far.

Algr’o hits him in the face, not even hard. He hisses.

“Your age, slave!”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Ha! Got a name?”

He thinks. “Slave.” He echoes. “I don’t know.”

“Dammit,” says Algr’o, “stop trying to sell me your garbage and go tell your general he can erase his mistakes in some other way, uh?”

“He’s not garbage,” one of the trooper insists again. “Amnesia can be useful in a slave. And head wounds are always spectacular but you see he’s already beginning to heal.”

“Ha. As if. Assess yourself, slave.”

He doesn’t understand. So he just stands there and gets another blow for it.

“Come on,” says the other trooper. “Your life’s at stake. He’s asking you to give a detailed statement of your health.”

“Uh,” he says. Then tries to think. To, as they say, assess himself. “My head hurts,” he says finally. Because that’s all there is. His head hurts and it makes dancing lights appear in his vision and makes his muscles weak and makes his brain feel like mud.

Algr’o lifts his shirt with his taser staff and uncovers his stomach. It’s bruised black and blue. Algr’o prods at it with the staff and jabs once at his arm. There’s probably a great deal of pain there, he thinks. But it’s got nothing on the pain in his head.

“My head hurts,” he repeats.

“Come on, Pi,” says one trooper to the other. “He’s broken, really broken. Maybe Big Dealer here will agree to just let him stand in the slave line, then we can take a damn holo to give Hux before shooting the poor guy. ‘t would be a mercy anyway.”

“What?” says the other. “And lose the transaction money? Hey, you, tell our friend there why you’d make a good slave, go on, do it.”

 _Suicide run_ , he thinks again. _No suicide run_. He doesn’t want to die.

“Hell,” says the second trooper. “Maybe he’s really too far gone.”

“I know about ships,” he blurts. “Starships. I was a pilot before.”

“Oh?” says Algr’o. “Got some fight in you, slave? Ships, eh. What kind? Shuttles? Freighters?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“You’re not a Starfighter pilot, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

Maybe if his head didn’t hurt that much he’d know. He’d manage to remember. His hands do, he’s sure of it.

“It was – small,” he says. “The cockpit.” He motions with his hands. “Joystick was like that. That far. Just here.”

Algr’o seems – _interested._

“That’s true,” says trooper number two. “He was a pilot.”

“What are you doing, Pi?” hisses trooper one. “That’s not something we were supposed to leak!”

“Well, it’s leaked anyway, huh?” says Two. “Algr’o, I can see you like that.”

“Maybe I do,” says Algr’o. “Tell you what, gonna try him. I can give fifty credits, paper money only. And I get to keep his cuffs.”

“What?” exclaims Two. “For a pilot? That’s ridiculous!”

“That’s more than anyone else will pay for a badly beaten Human with a probable cracked skull. And since your General seems to want him here very much I don’t think you’ll bargain.”

“If you sell him you’ll get a hundred time more!”

“Yes. And if he dies tomorrow I’ll be down fifty bucks. Here.”

Algr’o counts the credits, leaves them in Two’s hand and turns back to him, not bothering to watch the two troopers leave. “Come on,” he says, pushing him towards other shackled slaves. “If you can deal with a round of simulator in the shape you are, you can live.”

/

The inside of the sim is so familiar he thinks he could name the tiny differences. Even in the pain haze he can say the smell’s not the same, rank leather instead of textile soap coming from the seat. There should be a light breath of air going through a hairline crack in the back panel but the back panel is tight and intact.

He shakes his head and winces. Nothing more of the Before comes back. He moves the com headset again to find a position where it doesn’t put pressure on the worse of his wounds.

The dashboard buzzes and sprouts a joystick together with lines upon lines of switches and contacts. TIE commands, he thinks, surprised that he knows the name. His hands, at least, know the drill even if it’s not the configuration he thinks they’re yearning for.

Sims are a poor substitute for flying. They shake but don’t move, their imitation of the accelerations and sweeps of a chase are laughably poor. The barrel roll still goes fast enough that he blacks out but he presses the right button and gets the two Starfighters down nonetheless, turns sharp and readies himself for the asteroid jump and the two destroyers hiding behind. _Easy_.

The two destroyers can’t be shot but the heavy blasters on their bellies need to be incapacitated. He avoids the double tractor beams and loses himself in the shadows of the turrets and crooks on the back of the biggest one, riding that way for a long leg of the sim, getting out only when the X-Wings around are neatly disposed in a row in front of him, ready to re-enter dock. Then it’s fire and sweep away and loop back and fire again, a dance he knows so well he’d do it in his sleep. Maybe he does. His head hurts.

He has to compensate for his right arm which isn’t responding as it should. He looks down and sees the splint and the swelling underneath.

Broken arm, and his head hurts. He’s tired. His vision’s narrowing and darkening, chequered patterns appearing on the edges.

 _No suicide run_. _Don’t get yourself killed._

He breathes in – ribs. His ribs are broken, too – and concentrates. They’re sending him into a second TIE run.

And a third. He doesn’t know if he _sees_ the fake dogfight around. But he feels it in the sim commands and follows the lead of his body and his hands until the seat finally settles still, the commands retracting inside the dashboard.

He slumps back in the seat and lets the headache take over. It comes with an overwhelming wave of nausea that has him twisting on the side and vomiting all over the right hand panel, something liquid and foul-smelling and a dark brown that means it’s probably blood.

“Bloody hell of a rampaging Rathar!” his headset suddenly shouts. “Perfect! Three damn _perfect_ TIE runs! That’s a treasure we have here, Lyell. What’s the flaw? Why did the First Order feel they needed to get rid of their best pilot?”

“Flaw’s internal bleeding and a broken skull, boss. He’s death on legs, that one.”

“Dunno. Got a feeling he wants to live. Hey, slave? Want to live?”

He coughs. Clears his voice, tries to sound steady enough. “I do.”

“First lesson. I do, _Master_.”

“ _Master_.”

“Boss, we should test him on civilian crafts. Starfighter pilots are useless. Hey, pilot, how are you with a freighter?”

“I don’t know,” he says. _Pilot_. He likes it better than Slave. “Let’s try?”

The dashboard sprouts another command set, a heavy, unwieldy yoke in the middle. That’s not what his hands are used to but they manage. As it is, the freighter sim is set to fly like a lamb going to slaughter. Heavy unwieldy shields impairing speed and manoeuvrability, additional light guns that would get into each other’s line of fire. If he lets his hindbrain do it without thinking he can switch the settings to something faster and sleeker and keep the firing power to its intended decent, _operating_ level.

“Hell, slave, that’s a fucking unstable setting you’ve chosen, you know that?”

“I know,” he says, and it feels good.

The run is uneventful, the obstacles laughably predictable, the moves less taxing than the shaking and accelerations of a Starfighter sim.

“Now get us through hyperspace,” says his master. “Say, to Coruscant?”

His fingers find the right switch in the blink of an eye, hyperdrive ready and nav comp waiting for – for a code his mind should provide but can’t remember. Cold sweat floods his back.

“I’m waiting, slave.”

“I don’t – I don’t remember how,” he says, then remembers something else. “Master.”

What his master says next saturates the com but what he catches doesn’t make sense. Another language. Cursing, obviously.

“You just lost half of your value, you know that?” yells his master.

He doesn’t answer.

Turns out the yoke doubles as a remote operated taser. He yelps.

“You know that, slave?”

“Yes, master,” he says.

“That’s not so bad, boss,” says the other voice. “Most slave pilots operate shuttles anyway. Or they could pair him with an astromech if they really want him to fly the high routes. After all, it means he’s unable to leave by himself, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Let’s try the shuttle settings.”

He can’t do it anymore. His head hurts even more after the electric shock. Nausea’s building up again. He wants to sleep.

They make him fly a shuttle run anyway. He manages, probably piloting it more like a Starfighter than like a real shuttle. It’s easier.

At the end of the run he’s shaking and he finds he can’t move. Not even when he throws up again, half on himself and half on the floor.

His captors are talking between themselves, com still open.

“What do you think, fifteen thousand?”

“More. Even more. There’s a kind of middleman, doesn’t say who he’s working for, but he’s been pressuring me into finding him a pilot for a while now. A human, male pilot. Easy on the eye a plus.”

“Well, there’s the face wound, then. Gonna scar bad.”

“Seems okay to me? But I’m not human.”

“Not Human either, boss. Keshian. He’ll need some careful stitching, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Human, Keshian. Same thing.”

“And we’d have to run some other tests.”

“Sure, Lyell. I know I can count on you, eh?”

“Boss, what if we’re wrong? What if he’s got friends looking for him? That could make a royal mess.”

“Come on, a discarded First Order pilot, friends?”

“That’s my point, what if he’s Resistance? Not First Order?”

“Lyell, Lyell, one of these days your paranoia will get the best of you. You’ve seen his TIE runs?”

“Yeah, and I’d like to see an X-Wing one right now.”

He moans. No more runs. He can’t. “My head hurts,” he croaks into the com.

“Remember what I said? You manage a full round of sim, you can live.”

 _Don’t get yourself killed_.

His left hand moulds itself around the new joystick. His vision is too blurry to really make out the shapes he’s shooting at and time flows around him in a strange jerky manner, slow as molasses then too swift for him to follow. He can’t seem to anticipate, always has to straighten himself at the last possible second. His X-Wing is acting strange, missing an astromech, the acceleration not exactly there when it should and the sensations not quite right in the loops. He should call his squadron but he doesn’t remember who they are.

 _Don’t get yourself killed_ , but by the end of the run there’s a Destroyer he didn’t account for and he’s down.

“That’s still the sim record,” he hears distantly in the com which is a peculiar thing to say to someone who’s spinning towards the sun in a cracked starship. And why does his head still hurt so much if he’s dead?

Hands are tearing off the headset where it got stuck to his scalp. “Shit,” says a rough voice. “What a mess. You managed those out of the world runs in that state? Dammit, who the hell are you? Hey. Hey, you’re still alive?” The hands unfasten his harness and pull him up but he can’t stand, collapses against whoever is holding him. He hears an exclamation of disgust, then a groan as he’s carried down and laid on the ground. He feels fingers on his throat pulse, then something around his biceps and a short sharp jab in the crook of his elbow. He senses more than sees a human shape crouching above him, narrows his good eye and manages to focus for a few seconds. He’s known someone with such strange coloured eyes before, he thinks.

“You did good, pilot,” says the rough voice. “Did fucking great.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody falls in love with Poe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for rape.

He’s delirious for a long time, drifting in and out of some sort of nightmarish trance that’s not quite sleep. Sometimes they’re forcing things down his throat, things he often vomits right back, sometimes they’re manipulating his head, jabbing his face, his arms, his stomach. He doesn’t care. His head hurts.

“Give him painkillers,” says the rough voice.

“Hey softie, waste of good resources! Slave won’t heal faster.”

“Fuck you,” Rough Voice says, but he doesn’t get painkillers.

There are hushed voices around him and the sound of chains, the impression of many people around him. Once the sound of chains comes closer as water trickles into his mouth.

He wakes up in pitch black night. There are people looking for him. Or maybe he doesn’t wake, just dreams on, because these people, a woman – girl? – and a man aren’t there, definitely not, but they’re still calling him. The girl’s voice is terribly strong but it echoes everywhere and that’s the man he feels drawn to. _Don’t get yourself killed_ passes through his mind and maybe it has to do with the man, so he lets himself drift towards him even if the effort of finding a purpose _hurts_. There are half-formed questions and impressions all around him, hope, dread, _is that you_ , _how are you_ , _what did they do_ _to you_ , so he opens to let them see, let him see the all-encompassing pain because that’s the whole of who he is, that splitting radiating grinding thing in his head that’s all that’s holding him together.

It’s too much for the man who severs the connexion and leaves him alone. He drifts back to his nightmares.

/

He gets better. The headache becomes just that, something he can push to the side, and it makes him realise how broken and wasted the rest of his body is. Broken forearm, near the wrist, he thinks. Cracked ribs. The bruises on his whole body are turning yellow and he discovers a long regular scar on his stomach that looks like surgery. There’s a pulsating, painful knot of pain over his left eye but it doesn’t seem to affect his vision any longer.

He passes a hand on his face, feels the irregularities in the closed gash. Fucking old-fashioned stitches? He probes higher, up to his scalp – they sheared his hair, his head feels light – but the wound there is too sensitive for him to insist.

He makes himself stand up and nearly collapses back down. When the room finally stops spinning he realises he’s got cuffs on his ankles matching the ones on his wrists. A short length of flexisteel wire connects one of his ankles to his bunk. He can’t even walk as far as the window.

His eyes meet the stare of another Human, a woman with similarly shorn hair, similar cuffs. Another slave. She nods, moves up a leg from where she’s sitting. It clangs. She’s got a chain, longer than his own wire.

“Get used to it,” she says. “They’re here to stay.”

/

The Master comes with a bunch of other guys. Most of them various kinds of reptilian-looking heavies with all sorts of fangs and spines and horns, one a Human with strange eyes that he thinks he’s already seen before.

One of the heavies directs a device to his ankle and the wire clatters to the ground, freeing him.

“You really think he’s up to further testing?” the near-Human asks.

“Dunno. But Musrd is pressuring me into paying the next draft and I want to keep all my limbs as they are. This whole batch of slaves better make some good money, and soon.”

“You wouldn’t sell the pilot short?”

“Nah. Which is why we need to round the tests and fill in the specs file. You’re the closest to Human shape we have, Lyell, you do it.”

He can see the small hidden smile turning up a corner of Lyell’s mouth as he nods.

“Hey, pilot,” Lyell says, tossing him something. “You swallow that.”

Three large tablets, white with green filaments running through, still wrapped in their protective pack. He doesn’t like the look of them. Doesn’t like the way these guys talk about him as if he wasn’t there.

He looks up. “Not if I don’t know what’s in there, no,” he says. “What’s that?”

“Hey, the slave’s got _fangs_!” laughs one horned guy.

“And a death wish,” growls another, who’s not laughing at all and directs a taser bolt to his neck.

It’s a mild one but it still knocks him down on his cot. He finds himself pinned there, taser pressed against his eye.

“Don’t damage the merchandise,” Lyell groans.

“Nah, but I still can teach him his lesson,” says the other, punctuating his words with little painful jabs of his weapon into his skull. “When someone gives you an order, slave, you don’t even stop to think. I tell you to go kill yourself, you fucking do it, hear me?”

The guard smells like swamp and is hurting him but their way to hold him down is faulty, not accounting for their quarry’s superior flexibility and the way his legs dangling down the cot make for good leverage.

He is not thinking, only reacting when he moves, honed reflexes from before and a blind reach for freedom and something like pride that tells him he’s not to be played with like that. He rotates and slams down his legs, using the momentum to twist the guard’s weapon hand, finds himself sitting on their chest with the stolen taser shoved in the other’s ear. _His_ form isn’t faulty, he knows that.

The whole room is silent. The usual clangs and small noises of the other slaves have completely stilled. Lyell looks at him like he grew a pair of wings. He looks at his captors. One of them is pointing a blaster at him.

“Fucking hell,” the Master says. “And you were wondering if he was up to testing, Lyell?”

Lyell snorts, shakes his head and presses his lips in a strange line.

“Let go of Piyv’g, slave,” the Master says with a small head toss towards the blaster-holding guard. “Give the taser back and go stand up against the wall. If we weren’t about to sell you for a fucking big pile of gemstones, you’d get the beating of your life, you know that? Piyv’g, you can have a go if you want. No lasting damage.”

He looks at the blaster, at a seething Piyv’g under him, at the Master. Slides down from the other guy and lets the taser clatter to the ground.

The first bolt to his head makes him arch on the floor. Then another one comes, and another. He vision goes white and painful.

“Stop,” Lyell says. “He’s convulsing. Don’t let him hit his head.”

“Stand up,” the Master says.

He does. Staggers to the wall. His friend with the taser follows him. “What do you say, slave?” they bark, adding a short bolt to his sternum. “What do you say!”

“Yes, Master,” he says, wheezing.

Lyell crouches on the ground to retrieve something, takes two steps towards him. Not too close. He’s pointing a small blaster and throws the tablets on the floor in front of him. “Now you take them,” Lyell says. “They’re fucking _painkillers_ , you madman. And you really look like you need them right now.”

He sits on the ground, back to the wall. Puts the tablets into his mouth, chewing to make them work faster.

Something else, a small bottle, lands into his lap.

“Do you want to know what _that_ is?” laughs another guard. Lyell’s grinning.

He takes a look. _Testing,_ he thinks. “I know what it is,” he says. “Lube.”

They’re aiming three blasters at his head as they have him kneel facing the wall and fasten his handcuffs behind his back. “Now you follow me,” says Lyell, blaster in hand.

“Hey, Lyell,” the master says. “Don’t go hurting him, we want him all pretty and fresh, uh?”

Lyell’s jaw tenses minutely. “You know me, boss.”

“Ah, yeah. I do. Well, don’t get too attached. You know he’s not in your price range. And be careful, he’s a wild one.”

His time Lyell openly shrugs. “You know me, boss.”

/

“Wow,” grins the guard at the door. “All by himself? Who’s getting the deluxe treatment?”

“Big pile of dough, that one,” Lyell answers.

There’s nothing particularly luxurious in the small room they enter. Bare walls, no windows, a large bed in the middle with a red plush cover, several cushions and a metallic frame. Lyell pushes him onto it.

“Now you listen,” Lyell says, a bark in his voice and his strange eyes somewhat raw-looking. “You’re a _slave_. Nobody’s going to help you. Nobody’s going to save you. Little displays like you just did will earn you nothing but pain. Or worse.” He takes in a big glup of air. “And you wanna know? You’re fucking lucky, slave. ‘Cause you’ve got a good chance to be bought for piloting duties. Which you seem to be able to do like fucking no one else. Dunno why some guy wants slave pilots, a damn mistake in my opinion, but that’s the thing, he’ll want you. So you behave. You do what you’re told. And if someone calls you pet and does what I’m just going to do, you say yes Sir or yes Master, and you make yourself nice and pliable, uh?”

The bottle of lube bounces on the bed next to him and his cuffs separate. He brings his arms in front and massages his shoulders.

“Well?” asks Lyell.

He looks up. Hesitates. Lyell’s leaning against the wall, one hand shoved into his pants but the other still aiming at him with his small blaster.

“I’m not the worst that could happen to you,” says Lyell softly.

He bites his lips. “Yes, sir,” he says through his clenched jaw.

“Undress, pet. You’re a slave, nobody’s going to do it for you. And if you want to be able to walk straight tomorrow, you’d better use that lube and open yourself as nice and wide as you can.”

He hates that. Hates that he’s complying. Hates that he’s lying vulnerable and naked in front of a fully-clothed, armed man. Hates that there’s something in his addled brain that tells him he’s done that before, working his fingers inside his own ass, and damn fucking took pleasure in it. Hates that his hands, his body, even his mind still know how to do it.

“Fucking hell, pilot! Do it like you’re enjoying yourself!” Lyell moved to the head of the bed while he was busying himself with his clothes and grabs his head, twists it up.

He’s not enjoying himself. At all. But his traitorous body knows how to make it look like he does. He gets the fingers of his good hand all slicked up again, turns on his belly with his ass slightly raised, twists a little to enhance the curve of his back and get an easier access as he shoves the first finger in. It’s been a long time, provides his damn mind on autopilot, the sensation’s nice, he’s got to go slow.

He hears Lyell’s intake of breath. “That’s more like it,” his captor rasps. “Fucking pretty ass that you have, pilot.”

Two fingers, scissoring and twisting inside. Three fingers. Then four. He’s beginning to relax. At least a cock in there won’t hurt too much.

“Good. That’s good. Now you move these fingers a little better, uh? Want to see your find your sweet spot, pet. Want you to get hard from it. Come on, touch yourself. Want to hear you moan.”

Lyell won’t hear him moan. Not even a gasp. He doesn’t want to take pleasure from that and if he does he doesn’t want it to show. But what Lyell hears it the near-sob he can’t help letting escape as his damn experienced fingers find his prostate easily and he feels his cock beginning to harden.

Lyell’s hand on his scalp becomes soft, caressing. “Oh, pilot,” he says. “Beautiful. Come on. You’ll learn to like it. It’s not that hard!”

Then Lyell pulls on his arm, gently, gets him to turn on his back. He hates that gentleness and the mix of pity and desire he can see on Lyell’s face. He hates, also, that Lyell can see how his cock has risen, flushed so dark, so erect against his belly.

“Get your hands up. Over your head. Not my favourite position and I’m sorry that we have to do it like that but I don’t trust you enough.”

He feels a small buzz course through his wrists and then the handcuffs feel fused together. He can’t pull them off the bedframe.

“Force,” says Lyell from where he moved behind the headboard. “You’re really beautiful like that, you know? Gorgeous strong shoulders, and I love you pecs. And your nipples, sweet Mother L’hulla! Small and dark, delicious, I bet. You like them teased?”

He doesn’t answer. Hears a zipper unfastening and a rustle of fabric, doesn’t want to look up. Then Lyell sits close to him on the bed, stark naked. He tries to move away but Lyell lays a possessive hand on his inner thigh.

“Don’t do anything dumb with these nice legs of yours, uh. You might hurt me but there’s a guard at the door, remember? Ah, come on. I can see you’ve done that before and I’m not so bad-looking, ain’t I?” The hand on his thigh is moving up, firm and caressing and it makes his cock jump a little. The hand creeps higher, nudges his balls, circles his entrance, skips to the base of his cock. He bites the inside of his mouth not to moan and Lyell smirks, lunges down. He wants a kiss, he realises. No way. He turns his head aside.

“Ah,” Lyell says, voice hitching. “Yeah. Sorry.” His lips land on his collarbone instead, light and soft. Then that fucking sweet mouth goes down on his torso, kissing a trail to his nipples, teasing one with his tongue and he still doesn’t moan but he can’t fight the shiver on his skin nor the tremor deep inside nor the fastening in his pulse. Lyell chuckles and sets himself at the other nipple.

Lyell’s gathering his legs up and is nice enough to add a cushion under his butt. He feels Lyell’s cock nudge at his hole, breach the entrance and stay there, barely in. He clenches reflexively, wanting to get filled, wanting more, wanting – no. He doesn’t want that, he wants nothing of it, he hates that man topping him with his fucking sweet bed manners and his pity and that intensity in his desire that makes the colour of his eyes even more striking. Lyell raises a hand to his face, passes a thumb over his eyes and smoothens his cheeks. That may be because he’s crying.

“Is that okay?” whispers Lyell, sounding out of breath. “Can I –”

He won’t tell him. If that’s the last thing he can keep for himself, the last thing that will make him believe he hasn’t surrendered everything, he’ll hold on. Lyell will have to feel his way in, feel how he _is_ really open and yearning for it, feel how hard and leaking his cock already is, realise how he’s barely repressing himself from rolling up his hips to get Lyell’s dick deeper in.

“You want it, pilot,” growls Lyell. “By the stars you won’t tell but you’re fucking craving for it.” He pushes himself in, gradually, surveying his face for any sign of discomfort and he bites his lips not to beg Lyell for more, deeper, harder, faster. Lyell sees it anyway. Another flash of pity passes through his strange eyes and then he grimaces, lets his head fall down and slams himself balls deep into his hole.

The rhythm is frantic and jerky but Lyell still manages to be considerate enough to adjust his angle and soon he’s hitting his prostate with each powerful, wild stroke. That’s too much. That’s too much for him to hold back and he watches himself cant his hips to get more, watches himself find leverage with his bound hands and give back, blow for blow, thrust for thrust. He knows he’s panting, knows his mouth fell open and he’s licking his lips and couldn’t, wouldn’t say no to another attempt at a kiss, which thankfully Lyell doesn’t try. Manages, nonetheless, to retain some measure of pride as he forbids himself to echo any of Lyell’s moans, grunts and yells.

At least, he thinks, Lyell looks too far gone to go on for very long. And he himself might be on the edge and yearning to tumble over but his hands are tied up and he won’t come from getting pounded in the ass alone, not like that, not with that man, not when he doesn’t want to. But then Lyell shifts his position, resting himself half on one elbow and half bearing down, torso against torso. His skin is slick with sweat and radiates more heat than a Human would and his weight is near unbearable to the point he’s sure several of his ribs are cracking anew. But his cock, trapped between their bellies as it is, doesn’t care, revels in the friction, begins leaking. In that position, Lyell can take possession of it with his freed hand and begins pumping, too gone to try for any particular finesse but working at it in earnest.

No, he wants to say, no, please, don’t, don’t make me come, don’t make me enjoy it, don’t make a whore of me, but he won’t talk, not even to ask for it to stop, not to beg.

Lyell bites down on his shoulder and slams into his ass with even more vigour and he comes, comes while clenching around Lyell’s cock, comes without a word and feels the wetness spread between their bellies and feels the shame overwhelm him.

Lyell shouts and follows him, filling him with his come, biting again at his neck.

Lyell rolls aside, lies panting on his back with an arm spread across his torso. He tries to pull at his cuffs but he’s still trapped. There’s one of Lyell’s fingers on his ribs, exploring idly, tracing the outline of a bruise.

“Shit,” Lyell says. “Must have hurt. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t answer.

After a while Lyell tries again. “Pilot,” he says, voice wavering a little. “Gonna be hard to let you go and I’ll only have that to remember. Wonder what’s your real name. You really don’t know? Shit, you won’t talk, uh. I wish – in other circumstances, you’d have enjoyed that. I’m sure of it. Not only with your body. But with your mind. Maybe your heart.”

“No,” he finds the courage to say, looking up at the strange shapes a water stain made on the ceiling. It looks like a nebula with tiny specks of mould for the stars. “I wouldn’t have. Not if I had known you could do that to anyone.”

He wonders if it’s true. He wonders if his former self would have known somewhat. He hopes he’d have.

Lyell curses under his breath and stands up, goes behind the headboard to retrieve something.

He waits for the pain. There’s going to be a taser bolt or a blow and he’ll probably be made to apologise but he’s taking heart from knowing they won’t really hurt him, not if they want to keep him in a sellable shape.

But Lyell’s only holding the remote for the cuffs and he finally can move his arms down.

“Go inspect yourself for damage, slave,” spits Lyell, motioning to a basin in a corner. “And wash afterwards. You’re responsible for keeping your body in good shape and health. Anything you don’t catch gets you punished.”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

Lyell won’t wait to take him back to his bunk in the common room, he realises. He’s still washing himself, rubbing and scrubbing as if it could change anything, as the other steps over the threshold, fully clothed and ready to go.

“You did good,” Lyell says, stopping and turning towards him, a strange grin on his face, wistful, slightly pained. “You did fucking great.”

/

The next morning, when the guards come in to give them their rations, Lyell is with them and slips him a real bread roll, looking delicious and fresh and smelling of jam.

“Damn fucking deluxe treatment,” the guard laughs. “Don’t spoil him, pile of dough or not.”

He can’t bring himself to eat it. A fucking bread roll as a payment for his enslavement and his shame. Or as an apology, which is even worse.

The woman on his right, the one who talked to him before, can’t help stealing looks. Her belly is maybe slightly bloated but the rest of her is too thin, he realises. She looks famished and exhausted and her eyes are red.

He hands her the bread. “Take it,” he says. “You need it more than me”

She doesn’t move. “You’re new here,” she says. “Or you wouldn’t reject food, any food. Not if you don’t want the same thing as Lo here.”

He follows her gaze and sees someone, of some insectoid species that he doesn’t remember if he’s known before. There are untouched synth rations around them and it’s obvious, even not knowing their biology, that they shouldn’t look so emaciated.

“She wants to die,” the woman says. “And she’s not valuable enough for them to care. Do you want to die?”

 _Don’t get yourself killed_.

“I don’t. But I’m not dying soon. Take that fucking bread.”

He blinks and there’s a clink of chains and the bread is gone from his hand.

“Woah!”

“Thank you,” the woman says, wolfing down the bread.

He sets himself on his ration. It’s absolutely vile.

“So,” says the woman after a while. “You’re the pilot.”

He chuckles mirthlessly. “Slave,” he says. “Pilot. _Pet_.”

“Don’t worry too much. As a pilot, you’ll fetch them a much higher price. And they know it. I never saw so much resources piled on a dying slave before.”

“Dying? I’m not dying.”

“Believe me, you were. They gave you the kind of surgery most free people can’t afford. Took some time for your head with a bone stabilizer. And they used _bacta_ for your face!”

“Really? But I have stitches.”

“Cosmetic, I bet.”

“Uh?”

“Your scar’s not disfiguring. Only, well –”

“Well?”

“Romantic-looking. I guess. And appropriate for a slave.”

Appropriate. He snorts.

“And you?” he asks.

“And me?”

“So I’m a pilot. What are you?”

Her face crumbles. “I’m a mother,” she says. “Or I was. They took my child. I thought I had fled far enough but I hadn’t.”

Shit. He wants to hug her and he wants to kill them all and he wants to make up to Lyell to get more bread to feed her and he can’t do anything of that because he’s just a slave with a too short flexisteel wire fastening him down.

The wire falls down. “Making friends, slave?” says Lyell’s voice. Well. The wire is down, Lyell is there and maybe he’ll choose to kill them after all. He feels the rage build up and even higher. He stands.

“Don’t,” Lyell says. “Whatever you’re thinking of, don’t. We’ve got tasers and blasters. And some of the guards here don’t care for the money you’d get us.”

He sits back down.

“You’re not done with testing,” Lyell says.

“What,” he retorts. With anybody else he wouldn’t dare but that’s Lyell here, radiating guilt and caring very much that he remains in one piece. “Is there anything you didn’t take from me?”

A blaster butt connects with his solar plexus. “You’d be surprised,” says Lyell as he wheezes. “Well. I shall remain professional and just see how you do with females.”

One of the guards steps to the woman and tears her tunic open, revealing plentiful breasts and a belly that’s obviously not been empty of child for very long. Her ribs are nearly as bruised as his own.

“That’s not much, but she’s the youngest and prettiest we’ve got here. Fuck her.”

He catches a spasm of dread and absolute revulsion on the woman’s face before it becomes completely blank.

“No,” he says.

“Slave,” Lyell says to the woman. “He’s not in the mood. You help him.”

She steps forward to kneel in front of him. She fucking does it. He stands up and recoils, his back to the wall.

“I won’t,” he says, frantic. “I can’t.” Then he breathes in and out, tries to calm down, tries to find something that could save her. “I can’t,” he repeats. “I don’t know how. I don’t remember.”

Lyell looks him in the eye. “You forgot.” The corner of his mouth twitches. That’s not a smile. “How to fuck.”

“Yes, Sir,” he says.

“You know what happens to slaves who can’t follow orders?”

“I can guess, Sir,” he says. It’s strangely liberating to be the one initiating the game. To choose his own punishment.

Lyell comes closer and backhands him full in the mouth.

“You sure you want that?” says Lyell, so close and so low he’s probably the only one to hear. “I won’t be able to prevent the beating.”

“I forgot, Sir,” he says, his voice bearing.

“I’ll write that down on the specs flimsy, then,” says Lyell, sighing. “Dammit, pilot, and you probably don’t even remember what a moral compass is. But you’ve got one, and more courage than I ever had.”

The last Lyell utters so low that he’s not even sure he heard it. Maybe he read on Lyell’s lips or he just imagined it.

“Alright, boys and girls. He’s yours. Teach him. Just avoid his head this time. No permanent damage.”

The beating goes on for a long time but it’s obvious the three guards know how to cause pain without real damage. Maybe it’s because, to his surprise, Lyell opts to remain there and supervise the whole endeavour. His solar plexus doesn’t thank them anyway.

Towards the end it changes. They get a little mad, a little too rough. The cumulated amount of kicks in his ribs probably undoes what little healing had begun there, and one of the heavies takes a liking to his knee, finally totalling it with a nasty gun butt blow. He yells and it seems that it switches something in the guy, who then forgets everything and delivers a masterful kick to his mouth. He spits blood and probably bits of teeth.

“That’s enough,” growls Lyell. “I said no permanent damage. Stand up, you. Show me your mouth. Your teeth, I mean.”

He does, balancing all his weight on the one good leg. The opposite knee’s probably got something broken.

“Thought so. Broken canine. Piyv’g, I don’t think the Boss will be so happy with you. Ah, well. If the buyer wants perfect teeth they’ll pay for dentistry work. Go wash and patch yourself up, slave. The slaves’ medkit’s on that shelf there. Anything you think is real damage you report to the guard on duty.”

He begins to limp to the shelf on the other side of the wide room.

“Oh, and real damage doesn’t include your knee. You can use that to help.” Lyell joins him in three long steps, rummages into various pouches on his belt and finally places a small device in his hand. A bone stabilizer. He nods and Lyell nods back.

/

“Why don’t you help me?” he asks to the four slaves who made use of the superior length of their chains to congregate around his cot. “Since I’m so entertaining to watch.”

He’s still trying to do something about his knee but it’s on the side where they fastened his ankle to the wire and it means either his knee gets pulled laterally or he has to bend over. Which in turn means his ribs are in agony.

“A slave is responsible for his own health, pal,” says one of the bystanders. “You may have a death wish but we don’t.”

“Yeah, and we’re not pilots to be coddled by your boyfriend Lyell,” says the second.

“But you’re right,” says the third, “you’ve been quite entertaining in the recent days. Not a dull moment with you. What you did with Piyv’g and her taser was a thing of beauty.”

“Oh, shut up, you guys,” says the woman he didn’t rape. She threw some threadbare rag over her shoulders and is busy patching up her tunic. “Give him some space, end of the show.” She holds them under her gaze until they groan and scatter away.

“Thank you,” he says. “Any hope of getting help for my knee?”

“No,” she says. “They’re right. Your knee’s not worth a beating.”

“Thought so.”

“My name is Freia,” she says. Then she smiles. She’s got nice teeth, he notices. Even. Unbroken.

“And yours?” she asks when the silence stretches a little too long.

“I – I don’t know. Don’t remember.”

“Oh? Shit, really? I thought – is that from the head wound?”

“Don’t know.”

“So you really forgot – I mean, what you said to Lyell. That was not –”

“I said what to Lyell?”

“That you, you forgot how to fuck.”

“Huh. How to fuck women, I think I meant. Lyell fucked me into the mattress yesterday and if he didn’t notice my reaction then I’m the queen of Naboo. But he knows I forgot important things, so that may have been a plausible lie. Still a lie.”

She smiles again, wide and beautiful. “You’re completely mad, you know that? Standing against a direct order, by the Force.”

“It felt right at the time.”

She sets her hand lightly on his busted knee. “Does is still feel right?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” she says. Then she looks behind her shoulder to the door, swallows. “Give me that stabilizer, you look really uncomfortable like that.”

“I thought -”

“Nobody’s looking. Or maybe sanity is overrated, huh? I owe you to do what feels right.”

She manoeuvres his leg into a better position, cursing at the wire and the cuff. It feels better anyway. Then she works with the device in small, precise movements, using her other hand to push the bones in place. It should hurt but it doesn’t.

“You weren’t born a slave,” he says.

“I was a medic. Long ago.”

“Do they know?”

“They do. That’s why they didn’t kill me. Makes me somewhat valuable, ha. Although not as rare and precious as a pilot.”

“Yeah. They keep saying that.”

She keeps working on his leg, then makes him lie back, hikes his tunic up and probes his ribs. This is the first time since – the first time he can remember that someone is making him feel better without demanding anything in exchange. He breathes out.

“Even so,” she says suddenly.

“Even so what?”

“Even if you’re an invaluable pilot, you won’t last long like that. Is that suicide you’re after?”

 _No suicide run_.

“No!” he exclaims, shooting up.

She pushes him back, soft and careful.

“Then hear me. Stop testing the limits. Don’t give them more reasons to strike. _Obey orders_ ¸ pilot. _Slave._ ”

“What, even Lyell’s last? Ah, sorry. That was low.”

“You want to prove yourself you’re not broken, uh? Well. You know it. _I_ know it. Just keep that inside, make good use of it when it’s important. I don’t know what passed between you and Lyell –”

“What, besides him raping me? And me fucking enjoying it?”

“Hey. That’s like the bread this morning, know what I mean? Enjoy the small things. Better it being enjoyable than the alternative, trust me. But yeah, besides that. He gave you an order and then _you made him back down_. ‘Plausible lie’ my ass.”

“And then he made me pay. Ow. Right there. Fucking hell my ribs hurt.”

“My point exactly. Whatever you’ve got with him he’s dangerous. Not as bloodthirsty as the others, no. But he’s used to the game. Likes to play cat and mouse. And ultimately, for him, a good slave is a slave that fetches good credits. Makes him violent sometimes. Cruel, if it serves his interests. Be a good slave, pilot. Obey orders. Don’t fall in love with your masters. Don’t test them to see if they love you back.”

 “What?!” he says, his voice creaking in the effort to keep it low. _Test_. _Love_ , she fucking says. Never. He feels nausea at the idea. Rage. Fucking red hot killing rage.

“Believe me,” he hisses between clenched teeth. “Never. So maybe there’s something. Maybe he’s jealous, maybe he wants me. Then I can use it, I can play along. Make him _pay._ ”

She sighs. “Don’t, pilot. Don’t. And don’t expose me.”

/

Someone comes to buy him not long after. The guy isn’t his future master, they tell him. An envoy. Nobody know who his master is. Nor if they’re the same species as the middleman.

The guy is humanoid, very. Same size, comparable bulk, maybe a little larger. But green skin, speckled with small silver dots, or maybe they’re very fine scales catching the sunlight. He hands a sturdy, heavy-looking bag to Lyell who checks what’s in, smiles and passes it along to his boss, then gives flimsies and datapads in exchange to the envoy.

His soon former master is jumping with glee. So exulting he’s nearly patting him in the back but slaps Lyell’s biceps instead. Lyell’s not smiling anymore. He’s wearing that same half-pained, half-wistful expression he had after they fucked. When their gazes meet, the expression goes from pained to nearly pleading. What does he want, he thinks. He can’t be seriously hoping for some sort of last words, after all the ugly things he did? He looks away, still sees Lyell’s small head jerk and the way his gaze goes resting on Freia who’s standing back with the other slaves.

Now he can see why Freia said Lyell was cruel.

“Don’t expose me,” she said. But since it’s too late, he does the only thing he can think of.

He makes the one step towards the envoy he hopes won’t be taken against him, kneels. That’s the position he’s already been taught is the correct one in the place he’s being bought into. For a slave who hopes to be heard by his master. On his knees, neck extended and head bent, waiting for the weapon against the nape of his neck that will remind him of the chance he’s taking.

“Well?” says the envoy, pressing a blaster against his neck.

“You need a pilot, Master,” he says and wonders why the pang at his heart.

“I’m not your master.”

He makes himself try again, the best he can. “My master sent his envoy to buy a pilot, Lord.”

“Better, slave. And?”

“I’m the best you could find.” That’s true. And the guy knows it. “You saw my sim results, read my files, my Lord.”

“I’m not _your_ Lord.”

“The Lord saw that I didn’t suffer any lasting damage from the wounds I suffered.”

“Except for memory loss.”

“Except for memory loss, which I was told is a good thing, Lord. The slave who healed me is the Human female there, the one with the patched brown tunic and the green leggings. She’s a good medic. My master would gain from buying her along with me.”

The blaster presses deeper into his neck.

“And she’s very beautiful, Lord,” he adds, hating himself for that. “Gorgeous face, and smile.”

“You’re fucking her, slave? You want her?”

Tricky question. Maybe the guy would want to please a prised slave. Maybe that’s the meaning of his question.

“No, Lord. My handlers here can attest I didn’t. Nor did I want to.”

“That true, Lyell?”

Lyell doesn’t answer but his boss does, barking a laugh. “That damn pilot ain’t even able to rise it up for women. We put it in his specs, eh, Lyell?”

“And she’s really a medic?”

Lyell’s boss knows a good opportunity when he sees one.

“A damn good one, qualified for most humanoid species. And several others. She might need a little taming, see what I mean, but we could make for it in the price, eh? Lyell, you’ve got her files in there, haven’t you? Lyell?”

“Sure, boss.”

The envoy grabs his chin and forces his head up. He’d have imagined such a species to have green or yellow snake-like eyes to go with that reptilian skin but his eyes are very human-looking, brown like his own.

“You’re a cheeky one, slave, you know that?”

“Yes, Lord.”

The envoy lets go of his head and he fixes his gaze back down. The blaster’s still digging into the back of his neck.

“Why not, after all,” says the envoy. “Looks like a good opportunity. Of course she’s qualified for Humans, being one, hm? We’ve been expanding our slave workforce, as you know, and a few more medics to assess them would be welcome. How much did you say, Algr’o? Four hundred?”

“ _Eight_ hundred. That’s cheap for a medic.”

“You said she needed taming. And there are some shady areas in her specs, uh. Like that child business. I won’t go higher than five hundred.”

“Five fifty.”

“Deal.”

He’s breaking out in a cold sweat. He waits for a long time, feels the blaster leave his neck and finally dares to look up. He can’t stand. He doesn’t think his legs will hold his weight. He’s already shaking enough as it is, on his knees.

Freia’s gaze is blank and she looks bewildered. Lyell – he caught the end of some flicker of rage on his face, but now Lyell is looking straight at him and his lips are pressed so thin they look like a white line. Then his mouth opens and extends in some kind of smile, half ironic, half appreciative. Lyell bobs his head down, brings a hand half up. A salute.

He looks away.

/

From his corner in the shadows of the plaza arches, Lyell is watching the pilots get ready for their flight. Once, long ago, he wouldn’t have been very far, enjoying the opportunity to chat other pilots and making his own ship ready. Admittedly, that’d have been some slow-ass freighter, not these repurposed Starfighters that nonetheless scream Resistance to him, old patched ships that surely would still wreak havoc in a fight.

Resistance. If they find their friend it’s going to make one of the most monumental wreck any slave trader has ever had to deal with. Algr’o is still convinced these pilots are First Order, or rather First Order gone rogue, some kind of pirates. But Algr’o always had trouble going back on his judgement, which until very recently was something Lyell had been counting on to advance his own career. One day, Lyell was going to be his own boss. Was going to push Algro’s on the side and become fithy rich with the slave trade. He knows he’s better at it than his old boss, his head colder, his judgement better, his passions mostly in check.

But now he’s not sure. Maybe he should have stayed a mediocre freighter pilot. He wouldn’t be rolling in cash but he’d have slept better at night.

He’s still about to have to deal with that fucking mess, especially if Algr’o keeps doing nothing. On the plaza, the pilots are milling around, waiting for the refuelling to be complete. They’re Resistance, that’s for sure. He can see the small gestures of comfort, the banter, the easy teamwork. No First Order guys share that level of comradeship. Pilot was like that, too, his eyes much too soft, like his heart.

One of the Resistance guys is standing a little apart, the dark-skinned one who was so instrumental in Algro making up his mind. His act was spectacular, Lyell gives him that. All clipped tones, repressed rage and hints of ruthless violence, an excellent interpretation of a First Order officer. The man’s looking at a flimsy in his hand, then crumples it in a ball and throws it on the ground.

He doesn’t know why his feet take him to that man. He tells himself it’s to know more, so that maybe he can find back the intermediary and warn him about impending doom.

“My name’s Lyell Iarall,” he says, which is about the worst thing that could come out of his mouth. Why should he need to inform these guys of his identity?

“Finn,” says the dark-skinned man. His mouth and jaw are set in a hard, determined, maybe angry or cruel line. He’s seen First Order people look like that. But his eyes are soft, like Pilot’s, and they’re heavy, slightly puffed, and sad.

“I work for Algr’o. The slave dealer.”

“Yeah?”

“If it helps, your friend was sold as a pilot. Not as a whore. It’s not – it’s not a bad life. He’ll be valuable. Very.”

Finn nods. Smiles a little. “Anything else you could tell me?”

“We don’t know much about the buyer –” but why is he telling him that? “Not even if they’re the same species as the intermediary – but it looked like they came from the same civilisation. The intermediary was very specific about slave behaviour.”

Now Finn looks interested. “What was the intermediary’s species?”

“Don’t know. Something related to Tofs, maybe. Smaller. Same skin. Same hierarchical mind, maybe more sophisticated. Same way to only defer to males in conversation. They very much wanted a male pilot.” He doesn’t say Human male, good looking. He doesn’t want Finn to understand the implications. Possibly, he wants Finn to like him.

Finn exhales, looks down at his hands. Lyell realises that Finn is unclenching his fists just now, that there are nails imprints in his palms.

“That – that helps,” says Finn. “Gives us some start. Thank you. You’re – I didn’t think I’d find someone like you here.”

That’s ridiculous. “Don’t thank me. I’m – not a good guy.”

“Oh?”

Lyell can’t help the way his eyes drop down to the crumpled flimsy in the drain.

“Oh,” says Finn again, following his gaze. “You’re the one who scribbled all over Poe’s specs, aren’t you. Things about his looks and his ass, about, about his – his _performances_.”

So much for Finn liking him. “His name is Poe?” he blurts.

Finn looks surprised, then worried, a little ill.

“You didn’t know? How did you call him?” he asks.

“Oh, uh. Pi – pilot. He didn’t remember his name. Liked pilot better than slave.” He doesn’t tell Finn about the look of helpless disgust painted over Pilot’s – Poe’s features when he tried to call him pet. He doesn’t know if he could stand the shame.

“His name is Commander Poe Dameron,” Finn says and watches as Lyell jumps. _Shit_. “Rings a bell?”

“By the everlasting Dark. No wonder his sim scores were like that. Fucking hell.”

“You know the name?”

“I was a pilot once. Yeah. I know the name. I didn’t know the First Order had put their hands on him.”

“We didn’t publicise it.”

Shit. The Resistance’s going to run the whole Galaxy through the finest sieve to retrieve a man like that. If he’d known – if he’d known back then he’d probably have sent a blaster bolt right through his head and thrown his body into the nearest sun because the consequence were – the consequences are – all in all it’s better that he didn’t know. That way, Poe is still alive somewhere and as for himself, instead of murdering Poe he had the most bittersweet fuck of his life with him and still doesn’t regret it.

“You fell in love,” says Finn abruptly. “He’s good like that, Poe. Good at making people love him, people from the opposite side. Good at turning them.”

“But you,” Lyell says. “He loved you back. Didn’t he?”

“Yes,” says Finn, then the line on his forehead creases. “Maybe. He didn’t say. But I think so.”

Lyell thought he’d been jealous of that slave woman back then. Freia. But it’s nothing compared to the dizzying surge he feels now.

“You could still turn,” says Finn. “Come with us. We need pilots.”

He chuckles, bends down and picks up the flimsy. Smoothens it. “Finn. My boss thinks you lot are First Order gone rogue. Insignificant. I won’t tell him. Call that an attempt to pay my debt. But if your Poe found me among you, he’d probably shoot me dead. And now, if you excuse me, I have slaves to sell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add a warning:
> 
> The fic is about to become worse (very graphic, more rape). If this chapter was already at the limit of what you could enjoy/accept/whithstand, I'd advise you to stop here. There _are_ scattered plotty bits and tender moments (and a happy ending) that you might enjoy but the overall tone of the fic is very dark and very graphic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe flies, meets his Master and does less pleasant things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning : read the tags. This is the most graphic chapter, I think.

Finn tells Leia and Rey everything. They know that Poe’s a slave somewhere. That he’s piloting. That his life could be worse, that it could last for a long time. They know he’s been raped. They know he’s amnesiac, know he couldn’t escape and come back because he doesn’t know who he is. They know Finn can feel him and that what he feels is blankness.

There are entirely too many slave-using humanoid species with green skin in the Galaxy.

/

The first month they have him in freighters. It’s not a bad life. He’s among the stars and he’s piloting ships. He wonders if it was all he did before. He thinks it was a large part of it but is sure some things are not as they were. He lives in cockpits. He gets rations from a container that opens only at precise hours and the sonic ‘fresher in a cubicle is programmed for strictly timed cleaning sessions. The most he sees of the ground is the tarmac he walks on from one ship to another. The yellow sun of the system he’s criss-crossing begins to feel like an old friend.

He’s not the captain of his ships and that’s the most jarring part of his situation. He doesn’t control the com, which talks when it needs but lets him answer only when someone deems him worthy. He doesn’t even know the real shape of the hulls. Got no idea of the thrusts capacity, except by trying them in flight. Can only guess at the origin of the – thankfully minor, until then – mechanical failures. There’s a ground crew managing the fuelling and the maintenance and while they see each other, they don’t talk further than needed for the freighters not to break down in space. Some other people program the nav comp and he’s never there when they do it.

He sees handlers, taking him from ship to ship and giving him his orders. He learns to stand while they sit and to kneel in the rare instances he thinks there’s something they need to hear. He’s already had a wide array of weapons pressed to his neck.

All the handlers are male. Some his size, some larger and bigger. The bigger, the most impressive the weapons, the most numerous the entourage. Those, he calls Lord. The others, Sir. They all have these strange scaly-shiny skins and too-human eyes.

He sees slaves. All of them Humans. Males, females in slightly larger numbers. He never comes close enough to talk. He hopes Freia is alright.

He doesn’t know what his cargoes are. But realises that with each flight they’re getting more valuable. His runs are longer, his destinations evolve from asteroids stations to mining moons to two or three larger settlements.

It’s when pirates begin to attack his ships he knows he’s been given something precious.

For a few trips, the attacks are barely skirmishes. In one instance he gets rid of the poor guys without even resorting to gunfire. They don’t seem to realise a freighter can be up to acrobatics and their main two ships crash into each other when he abruptly goes up in a vertical climb. In another he makes good use of his tractor beam and comes into final orbit with a tail of incapacitated pirate fighters, not that he knows what becomes of them afterwards.

There’s always one flight that is one flight too far, he thinks and wonders if that thought is something coming from his former life. But then he’s too busy trying to repel the numerous, well-armed, aggressive fighters swarming around him to spend more time in philosophical considerations.

They’ve got him cornered against one of the system’s gas giants, no way he can land on that. Something in a damaged part of his mind tells him he’s got the range for a hyperspace jump but _he doesn’t know how_ , or rather he wouldn’t be able to program re-entry. The freighter’s got shields but they’re already overheating and they’re interfering with his armament. Something with force fields playing havoc with the aiming system or bad power settings causing the shields to detect his own guns as dangerous and deflecting his shots.

There’s no emergency switch for his com. Nobody answers his calls. Nobody hears, probably.

He’s surprised he’s not panicking. Actually, he’s feeling more alive than he can ever remember.

One pirate fighter’s down when he grazes the storm zone of the gas giant and his pursuer can’t straighten their course before they end in the maelstrom.

He gets two others in a variant of his previous trip move, getting them to crash together with a savvy use of his tractor beam and a bit of a last chance manoeuver, clearing out with a loop at the last minute, his shields heating even more with the amount of debris they have to deflect.

It still leaves four and they’re not going to fall for his tricks. His guns would be enough, he thinks, if he could get them to function properly. Which means no shields.

Anyway, the shields were going to fail soon.

Shutting them off requires a bit of wire pulling and shunting and it sets off an alarm. Probably something slaves aren’t allowed to do. Maybe it will attract the attention of some handler and his com will finally answer, then.

Freighters are really _not_ made for barrel rolls but that’s the only way he can escape the fighter’s fire and they’re not expecting his sudden accuracy as he gets his guns to bear. The guns are mounted on his belly and with a very limited pivoting range so he has to dance around, skidding and slipping, climbing and diving, feeling _alive_. He whoops.

Two down. The third flees to hyperspace. The last one is probably damaged and has stopped shooting, sort of drifts around. He gets a strange, suspended sensation from that, a kind of helpless dread that is not his own, and knows, but doesn’t know how, that the guy in the other ship has lost control, is hoping for a fast death in the gas giant or by his blasters. Then the pirate ship shatters and the feeling stops dead. _Dead._

He’s still trying to reconnect the shield wiring when a sizeable debris hits his cockpit. It’s a huge, barbed piece of hull with parts of some ID on it and it’s damn scary to see it rush towards him, bounce on the transparisteel, stamp a fucking big star-like impact there. The panel holds. For now. Other debris are pummelling the hull and some of them are probably jammed into the starboard secondary thrusts because the yoke begins to grip, requiring all his strength not to pull to the right.

He’s exhausted when he finally enters atmosphere and his vision begins to blur. There’s a pounding in his head and lights shooting against his eyes but he holds on, announces himself on the com, transmits his flight data, finally gets an answer and an emergency line for landing.

The increasing atmospheric pressure makes the transparisteel groan and creak around the debris impact and he’s not imagining the hiss of outgoing air. He feels around blindly with one hand, his vision too addled to see – but his fingers have no trouble finding the crack, thin but long and getting even longer.

The panel bursts and he pushes everything down to descend faster. At least they’ve equipped the pilot seat with an oxygen mask.

He’s piloting by ear now, trusting the landing alarms to tell him how far the ground still is, because his eyes are only seeing stars and his head hurts.

He lands with a bone-jarring jolt but his harness holds. Nothing explodes. Nothing burns. He unclasps the harness, probes with a hand around the sharp pain in his shoulder, finds a big shard of the cockpit transparisteel embedded there, curls into a ball, presses his hands against his skull and waits.

/

The shapes looming around him are probably handlers. They make him exit the cockpit and he goes on his knees because he damaged his ship, because it’s easier than standing up right now and because the chilly blaster barrel on his neck grounds him.

They ask questions for a very long time, don’t see or don’t care that blood seeps from his shoulder and trickles down his side, don’t hear in his voice, he won’t let them, how light-headed he feels, how stars still shoot from the corners of his eyes. But finally the pounding in his head recedes and his vision stabilises and when they tell him to stand he does, he staggers but he does, remains upright.

He follows them along the tarmac, down a tree-lined lane – when did he last _see_ trees? – further down to a barren area of muddy waste grounds, hangars and duracrete structures, then through a maze of dinky houses and interlacing alleys and finally into a large, squat building that seems to expand downwards in multiple floors and too-long corridors. When he stumbles, collapses down and scrambles desperately to stand back up, his guards don’t yell, shock him or pull him up, they lay him back down on the floor and call for a stretcher. He watches the ceiling scroll past as they carry him to a large room that smells of disinfectant and into his first real bed since – since as long as he can remember, and he won’t count the bed Lyell pushed him on. He won’t.

He’s exhausted and there’s nothing he’d like more than falling asleep but this is all so new he has to remain alert. He blinks and rubs at his eyes, moves in a half-sitting position that’s uncomfortable enough that it keeps him awake for a few moments more.

“You can sleep,” says a Human female in scrubs, with short curly black hair and a pleasantly full face. He knows her voice, saw her not so long ago. “Actually, pilot, if you don’t sleep I’ll find someone to order you to.”

/

He wakes up to the sound of someone singing.

_Duerme duerme yavinito  
Que tu mamá está en el campo_

He knows that song. It breaks his heart and it soothes him and he needs to sing along. His throat feels horribly raspy but he does, the way he used to hear it long ago.

 _Yavinito._  
_Duerme, duerme yavinito,_  
_Que tu mamá está en el cielo,_  
_yavinito._

 _Te va a traer huevos de marlello para ti,_  
_Te va a traer rica fruta para ti,_  
_Te va a traer carne de nerf para ti,_  
_Te va a traer muchas cosas para ti._

“Pilot! You’re awake!”

It’s the same curly-haired woman as before and when she smiles he recognises her, Freia with her hair growing back and her cheeks plump and her eyes glad. She’s been singing to a small human child in the bed next to his.

“Freia,” he smiles. “You look good.”

“Well,” she laughs, “you don’t. Yet. It’s not that I don’t like you, but I’d appreciate if you stopped coming in all battered and bloody, you know? Also, did I just hear you sing in yavinese?”

“Yavinese?”

“ _Duerme duerme yavinito_? It’s a memory from before, isn’t it? With your _mamá en el cielo_ instead of _en el campo?_ Is your mother dead?”

There’s an image of a man, an old man, white hair upon tanned skin, bent over his bed and singing.

“My mother was in the sky. Literally. Not dead. Someone sang it to me. _Mi abuelito_.”

“You’re Yavinese? You speak Yavinese! What were their names? Your _abuelo_? Your _mamá_?”

His _mamá_. She was in the sky. In a ship. But beyond that –

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Shit, I don’t remember.”

“Hey, _piloto_. That’s good! If bits of things are coming back more will come in time. Also, you know what? We’re from the same place. Yavin IV. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Yes,” he smiles. “It is.”

/

Freia works here in the slave medcentre as a senior medic. It’s a good life, she tells him. Their masters seem to see Human women as some kind of worker ants, clever and industrial but without any other use. Not the same with Human men, she begins to say, but her voice wavers and she stops.

“Just remind them you work in ships when you attract the attention of the biggest Lords,” she says, her gaze drifting to a few shapes lying in the beds in the opposite corner of the room, some unmoving, some agitated and moaning.

He tries to stand but some things don’t change since his ankle cuff is fastened to the bedframe with a length of flexisteel.

“For once I’m not too sorry they bound you to the bed,” Freia says. “Your orders are to rest. Until you’re perfectly healed. They like you, right now. Really, really like you. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Oh,” he says, noticing the bandage around his torso. “My shoulder.”

“Nothing grievous, lucky man.”

“And – my head? Did you do something for my head?”

“Your head? Your head was perfectly alright. Wasn’t it?”

He tells her. The horrible headache, the blurring vision, the shooting stars. The blind landing.

She swears, touches the still sensitive scar on his shorn scalp. “There must have been some further neurological damage after all,” she says. “It manifests when you’re tired. You’d been flying nonstop for one month, huh.”

“Can you do something?”

“Beyond giving you a list of painkillers and other medicines that would take the edge off the symptoms? No. I can’t. There’d have to be extensive explorations, brain surgery – they don’t lend that kind of equipment to slave medicine. Even for the expensive ones like you. And I don’t think they’d even allow such a high-risk surgery. I should report that, you know? It’s going to cause you to crash someday.”

“What will they do?”

“Forbid any flying, of course. Which is why I won’t say anything. Try not to exhaust yourself, keep hydrated, go to sleep as soon as you can, and fly, pilot. Slaves don’t live long anyway, better to live as good a life as you’re able. And tell you what? If you crash with one of them on board I won’t cry.”

/

He rests. Being a slave is all about boredom, who knew?

He lies on the bed except when they let him take a small walk to the ‘fresher. Looks at the ceiling. Tries to talk to his roommates, without much success. He’s got no memories to fall back on, no prospects either.

His nights are long and his nightmares unkind.

He wonders whether his wire would be long enough for a loop around his neck. Or sharp enough for a cut on his wrist. Probably not.

 _No suicide run. Don’t get yourself killed_.

He thinks of that voice inside him. Of the man it belongs to, who probably tried to find him once.

Suddenly he finds himself calling, not with words but with his mind, finds himself reaching blindly to the man with the voice. There’s a kind of path, something pushing him through the void until he feels like he’s docking home, like the presence in his mind fills a hole through which his soul had been bleeding all along. It scares him that he doesn’t know more about it. An intimacy and a belonging without any name nor face nor memory.

He tries to make himself known and maybe on some plane of consciousness the man realises he’s there. But he can’t completely go through, got no name to call, feels the man tiptoe around this part of himself like someone avoiding to look at their own gaping wound.

He hears music, a song in faulty, badly-accented Yavinese. The man is singing to children that feel very familiar because they look like the ones around here at the medcentre. Too quiet or too angry, with watching eyes and a way to balk at any swift movement. First Order, he thinks, doesn’t know why.

The song is happy but the man feels terribly sad inside.

/

A gaggle of lowly handlers materialise at the door.

“Can he stand?” he hears them ask Freia. “If not, the Master still wants to see him. He’ll go as far as deign to let him sit.”

Freia raises an eyebrow at him and he nods.

“His vitals are good, Sir,” she answers. “He can stand. Not too long.”

“The Master has to leave in fifteen minutes,”

“Fifteen minutes are good, Sir.”

“You’ve been in freighters since we were brought here,” she whispers urgently to him as she helps him with his undershirt and the new flightsuit they gave him. “Do you know who our master is?”

“No.”

“He’s the High Lord. The Lord of the whole system. Be careful, huh?”

“Freia, what should I do?”

“Be healthy. Competent. Try not to look too attractive.” She gives him an once-over. “If you can. Steer the conversation on ships and piloting. Let him see the flightsuit and not the man behind, pilot. Don’t look him in the eye.”

/

His Master is impressive. Easily two feet taller than him and approximately twice larger. Bulging muscles under a glistening golden-bronze skin. He sits as he sees his slave approaching and obviously expects him to keep standing.

“So you’re the pilot who saved four cargoes of phrik,” says his Master. He seems to wait for an answer. “Well?”

“I didn’t know there was phrik inside, Master.”

“Well, you made up for your buying price with that. Thrice over. A good investment.” He chuckles. “Not that I’d let you go, of course. Some of my councillors thought your sim scores were because of a familiarity with the device, not because you are an outstanding pilot. Which is why we tested you in freighters. Now that you managed to fight seven pirates with a freighter and live to tell the tale, looks like they’re changing their mind.”

He feels some anger bubble up. He’s still not happy with how he had to run that fight. “If it pleases my master to hear,” he begins, then stops in horror at his own words. What is he thinking, giving a piece of his own mind to the highest Lord and his Master? He should fall on his knees and abjectly beg for forgiveness, he should –

“Speak on, slave.”

He looks straight ahead before he can remember Freia’s advice. His Master’s eye are a disconcertingly homely shade of light warm brown. They crinkle at the corners.

“If – if it pleases my Master, I could have brought back the ship intact if I had been the one to supervise the maintenance. The shield settings were so botched they interfered with the aiming system. Badly.”

“I watched the holo-log. You had to disable the shields to shoot?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Which is how you ended with a shattered cockpit, a bent landing gear and a piece of the ship in your shoulder, uh.” He feels more than sees his master’s eyes on his shoulder, then on the rest of his body. “I hope the shoulder is better?”

“Thank you, Master, it is. It’s nearly healed and the medics say joint motion won’t be impaired. I’ll be able to fly ships as well as before.”

“Good. You’re a mystery, pilot, you know that?”

“Master?”

“I have a whole intelligence team sieving through what we have on the First Order to find where they hid you before, for us not to know about you. And what capital sin you committed for them to let such a pilot go.”

He shivers.

“You don’t like to be reminded of your time in the First Order?”

“I don’t know, Master. I don’t remember. My last days there weren’t pleasant.”

The Lord stands up – shit, but he’s tall – and stoops over him, catching his jaw in one hand and forcing his gaze up.

“I like that you don’t remember,” he says, his grip painful but his thumb slowly caressing his cheek. “There’s such an uncommon blend of competency and, and innocence in you. You’re a blank slate for me to write on. You’ve got no way to know who your friends were nor your enemies, got no place to escape, nothing to hope. You’re the best slave I could ever wish for.”

There’s no way he can talk with his jaw held like that. And the way his master looks at him has nothing to do with his piloting abilities.

“You’re afraid,” says the High Lord, letting go of his face.

He refrains from massaging his jaw. “Should I, Master?” he hears himself say and curses inside.

“Of course you should. I really like you, pilot. You don’t know how to keep your mouth shut. Well, that’s settled. You’re my personal shuttle pilot, beginning now.” He sighs. “It’s a dangerous position. My system is rich and many people, in and out of it, wish me dead. The way it lies on the apex of the Seswenna sector, I can potentially shut down or control three main hyperspace routes. Both the First Order and the Resistance are beginning to get interested, see what I mean.”

Why not, he thinks. He gets to pilot. Something with a better armament and probably a lot sleeker than a freighter. There’s danger? But his master is the one with a lot to lose. And if, no, according to Freia _when_ he crashes it’s going to make things interesting. Still…

He falls on his knees and casts his head down before he can think too much about what he’s about to say. He hears a chuckle, then the hiss of a blade being unsheathed. What lands on his neck is so sharp it breaks the skin even though his master isn’t trying to push down.

“If it pleases my Master?” he begins.

“I’m beginning to think you’re going to talk whether it pleases me or not. Go ahead.”

“I’d like to be made responsible of the shuttle maintenance. To be allowed out of the cockpit to survey fuelling and to have a say about anyone touching her. Also, I’ll need her blueprints and technical manual. If it pleases my Master.”

The blade presses a little deeper through his skin. At least it will make a clean death. _No suicide run,_ the voice in his head reminds him. Shit.

“Is that all?” asks his Master and he can’t say whether the hint of anger is faked. “Pilots are just pilots here, nothing more, slave.”

“My Master saw how well it worked with the freighter. And with all due respect, we’re not talking of a freighter here.”

“We bind shuttle pilots to their cockpits. Makes them more likely to keep their ships flying and that’s not going to change for you.”

He knows he’s going pale.

“The wire’s long, pilot. You’ll be able to move. And when the ship’s on the ground – I decide, and only me. But I think I’ll let you out. Let you captain your ship, in a way. That’s what you want, really, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And it’s in my own interest, as far as I understand.”

“It is, Master.”

“Slave, you really, really need to learn when to stop talking.” The blade leaves his neck. “But it’s been a pleasure to speak with you.”

/

The shuttle is a delight to pilot. Drawn after the plans of a Starfighter of some sort, obviously, with long lines and enough for wings that it gets some glide in atmosphere. Blown up to proportions wide enough to accommodate his Master’s suite, the entourage’s apartments and dependencies, with a sizeable hold and a cockpit that feels more like another suite, including a refresher with a real shower and a storage unit where he often finds the remains of whatever was eaten in the cabin and is suitable for a Human.

But he’s still got that wire fastened to his ankle, the other extremity fused to the structure under the dashboard, binding him to the ship, a hair too short for him to reach the communication door.

Only his master wields the control, both for his cuffs and for the wire, and he makes him beg for it every time the ship lands.

“Are you sure?” asks his Master, looking down at his kneeling slave. “The cockpit is your security. What’s so important that you need to leave it?”

“The ship, Master. It’s the first duty of a pilot, to check for its integrity and good shape. Before and after each flight. Will you always make me beg?”

“Always, pilot. You don’t understand the risk you’re taking.”

He doesn’t understand. And the ship needs tending. And the cockpit might be golden, but it’s still a cage.

/

Until one day his Master makes him understand.

The week begins normally enough until he asks the shuttle for all she’s got. The acceleration is perhaps a little sharper than what they need to get her home on time but she’s such a jewel to pilot that he can’t help asking for more. Her engines answer – nearly on clue, and the noise they make is – nearly the usual whooshing roar. But lower. Duller. With an underneath wheeze he doesn’t like at all.

“Are you sure,” says his Master as always.

“Damn sure,” he rushes to say, thinking of possible damage and probable sabotage. “Ship’s not right. I need to check.”

His Master’s blade presses deeper on his neck, the tip breaking the skin and shifting to draw a bloody line up to his ear. “Forgot something, slave?”

“Master. I’m sorry, Master. Please. I need to check.”

“I should make you stay here. Teach you a lesson.”

“Please, Master.”

The wire clangs down and the blade nicks his ear. His Master’s breathing is strange.

“Go.”

The maintenance tech is a free man, more or less his own size, obviously quite low in the pecking order. He still has to get on his knees to talk to him, trembles with repressed anger as he feels the gun barrel on his neck.

“Sir, there’s something wrong with the starboard main cooling unit. You need to check.”

“Already checked, slave. Acceleration and coolant debit were within parameters.”

“With the way I handle her, coolant debit was _below_ expected, Sir.”

“Still within expected range.”

“The engine’s too hot, Sir.”

“Maybe that’s because you pulled a bit too much on her, uh?”

“Sir, I never pull _too much_.”

“Alright, so it’s a little warm, but nothing broke, uh? You just flew and the shuttle’s fine.”

“Because the flight was short! Dammit, I bet you, Sir, if we unpower the cooling shield and check, there’s going to be something stuck into the particle filter, or rather, the particle filter won’t be right, too fine a mesh and you’d have to measure to see it but if the shuttle flies more than seven or eight hours the engine fucking overheats and, you know, Sir, _boom_!”

The tech looks uneasy at this but straightens up and growls “ _I already checked_ , slave, everything’s within parameters.”

“Fucking hell, then do it again! Or better, let me do it! What’s our next destination, Sir, I’m betting it’s in the asteroid belt, a good ten hours trip, or even further to the phrik mines, Sir!”

“Are you implying someone sabotaged the shuttle?”

“Yes! Fucking hell yes that’s exactly what I’m implying!”

“That’s enough, slave. You might think you’re the captain of this ship but you’re still under me and if you keep on like that I’m gonna pull that trigger on you.”

“Okay, you dummy, shoot, go on! _Sir_. And then you can shoot yourself because if his Lordship my Master gets out of it alive he won’t be so happy, and if he doesn’t _others_ will certainly kill you.”

They have gathered quite an audience and the tech is breathing hard, pushing his weapon into his neck. The barrel is shaking. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the blast.

“What’s happening there?” shouts his Master’s voice. “Stand up, Pilot. What are you playing at?”

He tries to calm down, to present the situation as neutrally as possible. “The cooling unit needs checking, Master. He won’t let me do it. Says he already did.”

“The slave forgets his place, my Lord. That’s all. Everything’s within parameters.”

“He says there’s something abnormal?”

“He’s delusional. Talks of sabotage. Everything’s within the technical range, I’m sure of it, my Lord!”

“Sabotage, pilot?”

“I’m betting it’s the cooling unit particle filter, Master. The engine sound wasn’t right.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go check, pilot!”

“Thank you, Master. Sir, I need a number six spanner wrench.”

These main units really aren’t made to be tackled by one lonely tech so it’s no surprise that the grease around the bolts holding the control panel looks perfectly undisturbed. Already checked, his ass. As it is, it takes him the best of an hour to reach the cooling unit and that fucking tech isn’t moving to help. When he finally gets out he’s covered in motor oil and he tore off one of his flightsuit sleeve but he’s holding the culprit in hand.

His Master is still there, sitting on a kind of makeshift throne, high chair or whatever, with a sizeable number of Lords around and lesser people offering refreshments.

“As I said, Master. That filter’s not the right one. Mesh is much too fine.”

“What would have happened?”

“On a longer trip, the engine would have overheated and if I couldn’t shut it down on time it would have exploded, Master. In the off-chance I could have shut it off there’d still have been the question of bringing back the shuttle on only one main engine.”

“Is that really the wrong mesh, tech?”

For a moment, as the tech’s eyes shift, he wonders if the guy is thinking a lie will save his skin.

“If he doesn’t know, Master, he can crosscheck the reference, it’s in the manual.”

“No,” the tech says, “no need. That’s not the right filter. The slave’s right.”

“And,” the High Lord says, looking dangerous, “could that filter have landed there by mistake?”

“Not likely,” the tech says. “You saw how the slave struggled to get it. You usually change the whole cooling unit when needed, nobody in their right mind would disassemble everything to replace the filter. Which is why I didn’t check that far. Everything was within parameters, my Lord!”

His Master stands up and he looks murderous. “Well, tech,” he growls. “Looks like your parameters would have gotten me dead. Maybe you’re the one needing to kneel right now.”

“Please, my Lord! I couldn’t have heard the engine noise!”

“But you could have listened to the pilot who did, uh?”

“I did what was expected of me!”

“Did you? Then it’s my turn to do what’s expected of me. Kneel. Make him, you two.”

Two slightly larger guys catch the whimpering tech by the elbows and force him down, then let go. The tech doesn’t move.

The High Lord steps forward, sweeps his scimitar once and the tech’s head rolls down. The blood is thick and golden yellow and it sprays on his bare forearm, where the flightsuit was torn.

“Now you kneel, too, pilot. So you don’t think you can play with free men so easily. You insulted that tech, uh?”

For once, he keeps his tongue in check. The blade slices through his collar into the skin of his neck, and down along his shoulderblade. If he lives, he’s going to have quite an interesting collection of scars to show to Freia.

“Why did you insist so much?”

“I knew there was something wrong, Master.”

“You lost control, slave. You yelled at him to the point he’d have killed you. Why?”

He opens his mouth to answer.

“Look at me, slave. I want to see it in your eyes if you lie.”

It’s not easy, twisting his torso to watch his Master with the blade still at his back. His eyes are still so disconcertingly human.

So be it. He finds he can’t help the smirk. “The ship, Master. She’s too beautiful to deserve to go down like that.”

“For the ship, uh? Not to save your life? Or mine?”

“Of course, Master, for that, too.”

The blade skips along the bone ridge, digs a little into the muscle.

“You’re lying, slave.”

Staying mute seems like the better option.

“And you still saved my life. Well. Stand up. We do need to make a long flight tomorrow so go back to the cockpit, clean up and change. As for the rest, we’ll see when we land down afterwards. I think I’ll allow myself a few days to settle what needs settled.”

/

Up and down the system, ten hours of flying a day, for three days. He’s exhausted, does what Freia told him, eats, drinks, sleeps when he can, as much as he can. He stills falls on his knees to require out when they’re safely on the ground.

Instead of a blade, a large hand lands on his neck where the cuts from the other day still sting a little. The wire clangs down.

“Yes,” his Master says instead of asking if he’s sure. “The pretty bird is safe in his cage but he wants out. Will learn soon enough that we clipped his wings.” Big fingers are playing with the shorn hair on the nape of his neck. “Come with me, pet. I’ve been wanting that for a long time.”

He feels dread at that. Sudden, horrible, paralysing dread. The kind that freezes him in place, doesn’t even let him open his mouth to argue, to talk of the ship, of refuelling, of changing his mind, of wishing to keep inside, anything. He follows his Master, respectfully, three steps behind, the cuffs on his hands and feet weighing him down.

/

He’s been left alone in a room. That one _is_ luxurious in an alien way, no beds but a yielding floor strewn with soft supple throws in powdery metallic colours that might be textiles or might be animal hide, he hopes they’re _animal_ even if he shouldn’t care.

They didn’t bind him to anything and didn’t lock the door. He’s free to go. He doesn’t move because this whole planet, this whole system is his cage and he’s tired of the consequences of rebellion. Or scared. They’re letting him be his own jailer and it’s a lesson, he knows.

A Lord comes in, not his Master. Nearly as tall and large but his skin greener and his gut softer and he’s got lesser weapons in his belt. He stands up and looks down.

“The trouble with pilot types is that they’re accustomed to being in charge,” says the lord. “Aware of their own value. Makes it difficult for them to learn. As for you, slave, it seems obvious from the other day’s little tantrum that you’re not only used to independence, you’re used to command. So you didn’t learn at all.”

“Lord, I’m learning right now,” he says, _damn his running mouth_.

“No!” barks the Lord. “Look at you. You still think you can talk back. Banter. Argue. _Bargain_. You know the stakes are high but you still think it’s a game. Listen to me, Human. Slave. The only thing you really do is _beg_. When, _if_ we let you. Undress.”

He begins to unzip his flightsuit. He’s scared but he’ll be damned if he begs for _anything_.

“Fold that and store it in that basket. You should still need it later, if I’m reading his Lordship correctly. You’ve been doing good enough as a pilot that I think he’ll let you recover. Even after having had to kill a free man because of you. For now, there’s a jar on the shelf, I’ll let you prepare yourself. Do I need to explain how?”

“No, Lord,” he says.

“Well, do it thoroughly. If I have to be precise, use as many fingers as you can. You Humans are on the small side and his Lordship is a very powerful man.”

/

That thing in the jar is not lube. It makes his fingers tingle a little and then their skin goes slightly numb. He doesn’t like that they think he’ll need that.

It also makes for a powerful muscle relaxant. As he lies on his belly on the soft floor, naked and slightly cold and as _thoroughly prepared_ as he’ll ever be, he’s never felt more helplessly open and less aroused in his whole life.

Maybe that’s for the best, he thinks. Maybe he won’t be made to enjoy that.

/

His Master enters the room and he pulls himself in a standing position. He wobbles, his joints too lax and his hips trying to buckle down when he doesn’t pay attention. His Master chuckles, steps on and pushes lightly on his chest, sending him crumpled down in a sitting position.

“That numbing cream does strange things to Human nerves,” laughs the Master. “Don’t try to stand up.”

He looks up and his Master looks down, a glint in his eyes. “Pretty naked bird on the floor, pretty bird with his clipped wings,” he says. “I see you complied with my man’s orders, pet.”

He looks up because if he fixes his eyes on his Master’s face and into his Master’s brown eyes he doesn’t has to look lower, lower to his Master’s naked powerful torso that still could feel human enough if he ignores how the skin shines in the soft light or the smooth nipple-less pecs, lower to his naked glimmering thighs and the erect, pulsating thing between them that will never look human.

His Master kneels down beside him on the floor with a small grunt and it makes him think of those reptilian species that never stop growing bigger as they age. His Master is not young, he realises. And he had to fight long and hard to stay where he is now, if he can judge by the scars crisscrossing his skin.

“You don’t learn, pet,” says his Master, low. “Your eyes are judging. Aren’t you afraid?”

He looks up. He desperately looks up. “I’m afraid,” he breathes. “I’m fucking scared.”

Like the first time they met, a large hand grips his chin. “And now you talk back. Forgot something, slave?”

“Master,” he manages to mumble around the fingers digging into his jaw. One of the fingers pushes into his mouth. These little specks of light are indeed scales, he realises. Small scales on his tongue, slick and dry and scratchy. He doesn’t want to think of how his Master’s cock will feel.

“You’ve got such a pretty mouth. Fragile teeth. Pretty lips. Soft and red and wet. One day I’ll fuck it, pet. When being fucked is all the value you have left. But for now I’ll take your ass. Turn down.”

He complies but not before getting an eyeful of his Master’s groin. Fuck. There are indeed scales, as fine as on the fingers but in however direction they’re growing, if they don’t chafe coming in they’ll chafe getting out. His cock is long, longer than any Human’s would, slender at the tip and pulsating in a strange way. It flares larger mid-length. And flares. Becomes massive. He can’t. Can’t take that in.

He feels hands on his ass cheeks, thumbs digging into his crack. “Oh,” says his Master, “you’ll take that in, willing or not. All of it. They always do. It will hurt like hell and then you’ll enjoy it. Believe me.”

No, he thinks. _No._

Then the tip breaches his entrance and his Master pushes in. If he wants him to enjoy it he’s not really making efforts. He’s not waiting to feel if he adjusts, not touching him to help, not trying to go in and out. Just pushing in, and pushing.

It’s better this way.

He finds he can’t avoid the push. He tries. Gets his hips higher, further away, but the cock goes in, and in, and whatever else the balm in the jar did to him it completely prevents him from controlling his muscles there. He can’t even clench, has to let it happen, has to feel the filling become a burning become a ferocious tearing of his hole and his insides and he’s just lying there, pinned by that cock and the weight of his Master over him and he knows it’s his voice he’s hearing, small whimpers he can’t help uttering, turning into a wail as his Master gets himself completely buried.

His Master hisses. “By the Mother’s egg,” he growls. “Fucking Humans and their insides like a furnace.” And that’s another thing, how his Master’s skin is cold against his own, how the thing inside him feels so chilly.

Then his master moves and the scales become the least of his problems as he can feel them only in an abstract sort of way, the cream having numbed his skin enough that he can’t realise the damage. But the cream does nothing to ease the deep tearing and the pressure as he feels something swell even more inside, the tip of that horrible dick, he thinks, now grown into a bulge that prevents it to get completely out as his Master pumps, long fast strokes that feel like they go as far as his spine, jostle his whole body and make it impossible for him to even accompany that rhythm. The bulge on the tip sometimes hits his prostate and the sensation is far from enjoyable, too rough and raw and unescapable.

Then his Master roars and begins spilling inside him and he’s so relieved that it’s done, that it didn’t last long, that he didn’t even _like_ it. He thinks that he can live with that. But then the spilling goes on, impossibly leaking around his Master’s cock, filling in his guts and making his belly _swell_ , from the sheer volume of it but also from some reaction of his insides, some inflammation that makes him feel too hot in spite of the cold come. As his Master tears his still hard cock out of him and he tries to push himself up on his knees and elbows he glimpses the thick liquid trickle down his thighs and sees his distorted, bloated stomach and it makes him queasy. He feels light-headed and the sensation doesn’t pass, increases instead and makes his breath shorter and his skin warmer.

His master pushes him down and turns him on his back, puts a possessive hand on his swollen belly, caresses the skin there and smiles hungrily. “This is where you begin to enjoy it, pet,” he says.

He wouldn’t call that enjoying it but he feels it. He feels the queasiness turn into a hollow yearning turn into mind-numbing _desire_ as his master begins to touch him, not on his cock but around his distended, aching, torn hole, on the scale burns of the inside of his thighs, around his lips and everywhere on his burning skin. He feels his cock fill in and he can’t but he _needs_ , oh how he needs to clench around the one finger his Master is idly crooking inside him.

There’s something in his Master’s come that makes him shaky and wanting and aching for it, something that tells him even the pain will feel like pleasure. He sees with horror, or is it need, or want, that his Master is still hard. He moans, tries to reach out to that scary cock with his hand but his Master grabs it and slams it down.

“You don’t get to take, pet. You wait for what I wish to give you. Do you want more?”

He can’t help the long, quivering moan.

“I’ll take that for a yes,” laughs his Master, and that enormous dick that he wants so much goes back inside in one powerful thrust, helped by all the come slicking him inside. It still hurts as much as before but now he wants, he needs it and he’s not whimpering or wailing anymore, he’s moaning and grunting and trying to push it in with his hips.

His Master is wild over him, bearing down with all his weight, biting his shoulders and his neck, setting an impossible pace that shakes the whole of his being. Then he stops, he laughs and stops with just the swollen tip of his cock inside, laughs again at his slave’s hand trying to pull him inside, pins his arms alongside his body.

“Pretty bird all bloody under me, wanting more as I tear his wings off. You’re so pretty, my pet, you know that? Want more? Going to hurt, even more, pet.”

“Yes,” he hisses and forces himself to add, though he can’t even think straight. “Master. Please. Want you in.”

“Told you you’d take all in, pet. Like that.”

The push is so violent it makes his ass and back jump up and he doesn’t know if he yells in pain or in pleasure. His own cock is rock-hard now, leaking but his Master doesn’t care for it, prevents him from touching himself by gripping both his handcuffs with one hand, pulling them high above his head and he struggles to bring his hands down, moans and grunts and keens with the frustration of his helplessness. But it doesn’t matter in the end because whatever drug courses in his veins make him relish every sensation, makes him bask in the way his Master pounds into him and spreads him and splits him with his cock, and the pleasure builds and builds until his cock reacts only from the pressure of being caught between his Master’s and his own swollen belly and he comes, and comes, and comes harder and longer than he thought possible.

His Master keeps on slamming into him and he knows he feels raw and torn inside and he begins to feel the chafe and the burn and the tears on the sensitive skin of his hole and it’s too much, too much but his cock doesn’t care, it impossibly fills in again as his Master finally comes, yells and yells and keeps on coming inside him and over him and maybe then he blacks out.

He opens his eyes to the sensation of his ass _hurting_ and leaking something chilly and his belly aching from the bloating and his cock unbelievably _throbbing_ and begging for more. He feels his Master’s too-cold skin all alongside his own body and sees his Master’s clear brown eyes searching his face. Something in him still wants more of that, _wants_ like nothing else he’s craved in his whole life and the feeling is so overwhelming he thinks his self is dissolving in it.

“Do you want more, pet?” asks his Master. “I see you liked that. You _like_ that. I _can_ give you more, if you ask for it.”

His cock fucking twitches at that, no, more than twitches, flushes even fuller and harder and he feels the moisture where the tip touches that horrible swelling of his abdomen. His Master’s nostrils flare, taking in his smell, and there might be the hint of a tongue passing on scaly lips. “Lovely,” he says. “Here’s for you.”

There are fingers on his cock, scaly-soft large fingers just grazing the length, playing with the weight and sliding over the tip and he comes with a long whine, just from that, thick white creamy ribbons of come all over the bronze of his Master’s hand.

“No,” he says, looking in horror at his still, impossibly still hard cock, feeling the pulse and the heat in his torn hole, feeling empty and yearning and used and dirty. “No, please master, it hurts, hurts too much, too good, yes, please –”

“Ha,” chuckles his Master, beginning to pet and stroke his skin again. “You want it so much. They all want it, they never know what’s really good for them. Will you beg for my cock, my pet, my sweet caged bird?”

He feels anger at that, anger at the cage and the jailer, anger at the humiliation, at himself, at the order to _beg_. He won’t. And he won’t let his Master destroy him like that, _damage_ him even more, not as long as he’s offered a choice.

“No way,” he croaks. “No. No more. No more, please, Master.”

He feels his Master’s slight jump against him, then the vibration of his ribcage as he lets out a short laugh. “By the First Egg, slave! You’re a strong one. Are you sure? I really could have another go myself.”

He breathes deep, tries to cling with all his might to that anger that balances the _want_.

“I’m sure, Master,” he breathes out.

“Dammit. Ha. I asked, didn’t I. So I’m bound to your answer now. Well, at least this is going to be interesting, huh. The arousal should last for one hour, more or less, then it’s going to wane. And you’ll really, really feel like crap afterwards, although nothing you can’t get over, not with how short it was. But right now you’ve got the option to wait it out, if you’re strong enough, or to deal with it with your own hands. Or however you wish. You’ve got my permission. I just think I’m going to _watch_.”

He tries to wait it out. The effects of the numbing balm are fast wearing out and he hopes his exhaustion and the way his body _hurts_ , just hurts everywhere will kill the arousal, however differently he’s just been told. But they don’t. As his Master lies maybe one meter apart, slowly stroking himself and licking his lips, he feels awful but knows he looks wrecked and flushed and that his hips are jerking up in small twitchy involuntary motions and realises his cock keeps leaking and begins to ache with the strength of his arousal. He stirs, turns his back to his Master. Waits. Turns on his belly but the pressure is too much and anyway he was beginning to hump the floor.

His back again to his Master, he puts his hand around his dick and tries to think of something, anything that isn’t his Master taking him nor Lyell fucking him and maybe his mind goes somewhere, somewhere not that pretty with cold smooth walls and curved corridors but there someone kisses him, sweet and deep and tender and passionate, and he makes himself imagine the man, dark skin and short hair and long curved eyelashes and kind eyes and then he comes in his hand and keeps on stroking as his cock fills in again and he keeps sending his mind to this place and to that man.

He hears his Master shift and walk around and settle himself to face him again, is certain that he hears him coming, maybe several times, but he doesn’t open his eyes and keeps thinking of the Human with dark eyes and sweet lips and after a while he drifts away and maybe sleeps. _I love you_ , the man tells him in his dream.

He wakes up shivering, aching and wracked with cramps and spasms. His master is lying against him, raised on one elbow, but he’s fully clothed and his hand is again on his belly.

“You’re such a good pilot,” his Master says, “it’s a pity you have to go through this. But you needed that lesson, my pet.” His voice hitches a little. “And you’ve been playing with me, pilot, standing out, looking up, talking back, like you wanted me to notice how much I wanted you. Human males. You don’t know how hard it is for us to look away. To stop once we’ve begun. You’re like an addiction.”

“I didn’t want,” he tries to say in that strange lull where it seems they can confide in each other, then has to wait for the worse of the shivering to pass. “I didn’t care for your notice, Master. Now I very much wish I hadn’t got it.”

“It’s too late, my pet, much too late. You were so beautiful when we made love, aching and wanting, the swell of your belly nearly like a woman’s –” his Master waits as a more specular series of spasms fold him in two and doesn’t understand that his words are what makes him retch.

“We’re weak, we men. We should find enough in the love of our women, bask in each other worship, us of their eggs, them of our seed. But sometimes, you know, the body needs to be heard above the rejoicing of the soul. Your Human women, they don’t understand, they’re useless, but you, males, with your body so slender and so close in shape to the ones of our lesser men – they were in your place once, you know that? When we weren’t so civilised. But you’re better. Fragile and yet strong and sometimes, like you, with a core of durasteel. And so we destroy you. And we want more.”

The hand on his belly kneads and caresses as he shivers even more and his Master goes on. “One day, slave, when you can’t pilot anymore, when you’ve outlived your usefulness, I’ll make love to you like to one of our women, make you taste my seed and fill you with it to the brim, and it will be so heady, and you’ll be so intoxicated that this time you won’t be able to refuse, you’ll ask for more, and even more, and love it. And it’ll kill you.”

The surge of hate he feels at that is so sudden and so strong it gives him the strength to tear himself away from his Master’s hand. He thinks of the wound in his head and his brain that will one day make him lose the control of his shuttle, hopes the last thing he does before the headache and the blindness seize him is send his ship into the sun and his Master with it.

/

When Finn sleeps these days it’s because he’s bone-deep exhausted and he doesn’t remember his dreams. But this night is an exception as he begins to dream of making love to Poe. The way they kiss feels extraordinary vivid and precise and more than a little passionate while the rest of their lovemaking remains vague, but he’s aroused and Poe definitely is. Poe’s orgasm is spectacular and nerve-wracking for the both of them and what’s even more spectacular is how Poe keeps going after that, towards a second orgasm and perhaps a third, while Finn keeps kissing him and holding him and trying to infuse him with all the love he can give.

But the dream is bittersweet: it never feels like Poe knows who’s holding him and it seems he’s crying through his orgasms as though he doesn’t even want them.

Upon waking up, he wonders if it was more than just a dream. The Poe presence in his mind has shifted, the blankness imbued of an aura of desperation and defeat that wasn’t there before. When he probes that connexion he’s been so studiously avoiding for a long time, he finds again the red-hot ember at the core of the nothingness, but changed, not made of pain anymore but of scorching anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. I promise the comfort part of the story will come.
> 
> Also, writing a fic in the POV of someone who doesn't remember his name is tricky.
> 
> Freia's song is adapted from _duerme duerme negrito_ , a Columbian-Venezuelan folk lullaby that was first collected by Atahualpa Yupanqui. The mother who sings it is a slave working in the fields.  
> [Atahualpa Yupanqui's version here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Jo5mBZZGqU)  
> [Wikipedia article](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duerme_Negrito)
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, forgot: [my tumblr](http://la-tarasque.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe doesn't get better and Finn has to stop looking for him. Yet there might be hope.

His master left after the rape and others came in, or that’s what he thinks he remembers afterwards. He stood up, he’s sure of it, because they ordered him to. They didn’t offer to clothe him so he retrieved a throw on the floor and wrapped it around himself as best as he could because he was cold, so cold and shivering and still leaking that horrible cold come. He followed them out of the room and out of the building and along the road of the medcentre, he thinks he walked and stumbled and fell and stood up and walked on because he can’t remember them ever helping him.

He thinks that it’s Freia who gathered him in her arms and supported him as he made the last meters towards a bed, all the while swearing a long string of Yavinese curses he himself had forgotten. He thinks she stayed at his side and talked to him through his delirium and the worst of his fever and made him drink glass upon glass of water, telling him he had to stay awake and he had to drink, that it was the only thing she could give to help him clear that shit out of his system.

He stays awake for a long time. Or he just keeps his eyes open and dreams nonetheless. The man in his mind is still telling him he loves him and it can’t be real.

/

He wakes up to a smell of chocolate that brings out the memory of an old kitchen and a very young version of himself, sitting on the lap of an even older woman while they both roll sweet-smelling ingredients in large leaves. His mouth waters.

Freia is setting a tray on his bed, smiling. “You made it, pilot,” she says. “Now you need to recover your strength. Eat.”

“Is that _tamales_ , Freia? _Tamales negras_ , with chocolate? Where did you find them, by the stars?”

“I made them, friend. Payback for that bread roll, long ago.”

He takes one and bites in. The filling runs over his fingers and he licks them. It feels heavenly. And unbelievable.

“You’re allowed to make your own cooking in there? With fresh ingredients?”

“Ah, not as you could say allowed, not really. But I know a few people, called in a few favours, got some key guys to close their eyes.”

“Be careful, eh? Favours like that can cost you too much.”

She smiles, sadly. “Took your time learning that lesson, pilot.”

He winces, tries to erase flashes of his naked Master from his mind.

“Sorry,” she rushes to say. “I’m sorry.” She clears her voice. Tries again. “Truth is, we do the best we can. Things like that are what makes our life worth living.”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Like me pressuring him into letting me captain my own ship. Damn fucking mistake, probably, but I don’t regret it. Even now.” He shivers.

“Are you okay, pilot?”

“No,” he says. “Not really.”

“Ah. I –” she seems to hesitate, opens her mouth, closes it, then goes on. “Shit. I know it’s not the point and there’s so fucking little I can tell to comfort you, but. But at least you’re not – at least you’ll be completely alright physically. Your, uh, session didn’t last too long and they wanted me to make absolutely sure you’d be up to piloting in a few days. _There was bacta involved_ ,” she whispers in a conspiratorial tone.

“But it’s going to happen again,” he says.

“Yes,” she says, “but – but not too often. Or too soon. Our master – our master wanted to talk with me. He’s – he’s a fucking complex guy, huh. And an absolute piece of shit, so keep hiding, pilot. As much as you can. And when you can’t – ah. It seems – it seems you managed to resist the, the urge to, ah, you know what I mean. Ask for more. Keep doing that. Shit.”

“Shit,” he echoes. Then he tries a smile. “But you know what, Freia? I have the damn best tamales I can ever remember tasting on my lap, and that includes the ones my _abuelita_ and I did together, so I won’t let something like all the rest of my fucking tragic life get in the way of my appreciation of them. Cheers.”

He motions in a mock salute with one of them, sprays drops of the chocolate filling on the tray and down his front, manages to scrape everything with a finger and lick it off in record time. She smiles.

“Oh,” she exclaims, looking behind him. “Will you excuse me for a very short while? I have another plate of tamales to give to their rightful recipient.”

“What? There’s another I’ll have to fight for your heart? And your tamales?”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she says and stands up quite fast to run, tamales in hand, towards another slave, a completely nondescript Human male. But when the man smiles to her the homeliness seems to slough off him and he _shines_. A man, he realises, who knows much better than himself how to blend in and disappear. Freia speaks a few words, pushes the plate into his hands and pecks him on the mouth. Then he turns around and leaves.

“Freia,” he says, astonished, as she comes back. “What did I just witness?”

“Nothing,” she smirks. “You just saw absolutely nothing.”

“Is that another of these things we can’t help doing to make our life bearable?”

“ _Exactly_ , friend. We’re fucking and it feels great.”

“Force, Freia! Don’t – ah, fuck. I’m sure you know what I was about to tell. Have fun, don’t get caught, uh?”

“Sure, pilot. Now eat.”

/

The days sort of melt into each other and it’s hard to keep count but he thinks Today makes it five weeks of resisting the urge to get the hell out of his cockpit. Ship matters _can_ be dealt from within, to a point, in that strange ritual of giving orders while apologising and showing abject reverence he’s beginning to feel accustomed to. When his Master comes in he stands and remains mute until he’s asked to report on some specifics of his flight.

His Master calls him pilot, not bird, not pet, and if his eyes roam on him in some hungry way he doesn’t know because he keeps his own gaze to the ground.

At least it’s been some time since he was on his knees. Or worse.

But it makes his blood boil and he knows that soon even the joy of flying won’t be enough. He wants _out_. He wants to walk the tarmacs and the docks and talk to techs and get his hands in the engines. He wants to hear the other pilots’ wild tales and exchange half-truths with the shady near-pirates that roam in the asteroid stations. He wants to see trees again and to hear the rustle of their leaves and to smell the wet earth around their roots along the river.

He wishes he could still believe there’s some measure of freedom outside – but the lesson his Master taught him is one nobody could forget.

Five weeks and one day mark the limit of his self-imposed seclusion. Maybe it’s fate, he tells himself, since it’s not that he breaks down, it’s outside events that seem to have conspired to get him out.

The shuttle was under fire with his master inside and now that she’s more or less safely landed he’s yelling at his handlers in the com for them to see reason.

“Sir! With due respect, I want to talk to the tech who reset the tau resonator settings to standard! She got her tail burned because she was sluggish, _sluggish_ in acceleration!”

“Yes, sir, I know what I’m talking about, and no, it’s not that I’m trying to make excuses for myself. And while we’re at it, if the guy who removed the tractor beam unit without telling me, and I quote the display on the monitor, ‘for annual maintenance,’ can come and explain, that will help, Sir.”

“Sir, I know you’re only the com handler and that’s why I’m begging, begging you, Sir, to pass the connexion to someone who’s competent. What? No, Sir, I’m not _implying,_ I’m _telling_ you outright that you’re incompetent.”

“Yes, dammit, absolutely! You didn’t even deign to connect me to the _cabin_ during the fight, fucking hell!”

“Shit, fucking hell, _Sir_!”

“Alright, alright, Sir, you’re referring to a superior and I’m going to get my ass handed on a platter, but while you’re at it please also tell them that I’ll need the holos of the tail damage, under all angles, please, and also the techs’ reports, because there’s no way, _no way_ I’m piloting that thing without having personally supervised the repairs. And yes, Sir, you can tell that to my Master. Fucking hell.”

He realises he didn’t hear the communication door open at the sound of his Master’s voice.

“What are they going to tell me? What’s the matter, pilot? That landing was awful.”

He takes his head into his hands. “What they are going to tell you is that I’ve been insulting the com handler, who’s probably high enough that I should call him Lord instead of Sir, for the best part of an hour, and that that mo- uh, that guy still won’t fucking bulge, dammit.”

“You’re forgetting yourself, slave.”

Shit. Oh, _shit._ He stands up and sets his gaze down.

“Please Master, I’m begging forgiveness, I don’t know what got me, please Master!”

“I’m thinking you can beg on your knees, slave.”

He does. What lands on his neck is again his Master’s hand, not his blade. He doesn’t doubt that such a hand could snap his neck without even straining. Or do much, much worse in other places.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

His heart beats so fast he feels dizzy. He breathes in as well as he can. “Not – not for myself, Master, for the ship. She’s got a burned tail.”

The way his Master jumps it pushes him down and he’s sure it’s involuntary. “Force dammit, pilot, _what_? You burned her tail upon landing?”

“No, Master, but the landing was rough because of it. We got fired on. Tried to warn the cabin and ask for people manning the auxiliary guns but the com handler didn’t believe me. Said he needed additional information, even when I tried to send the live holo. Wouldn’t connect me. We still escaped them but it was a close call.”

The hand leaves his neck and he hears his Master sit down heavily in the co-pilot seat.

“Sit down, pilot. I’m tired of these little displays. Where you want, on the seat, on the floor, whatever. Who are _them_?”

That’s the thing with his Master: he rapes his slaves until they die of it; it would be deadly to mistake his familiarity for friendliness or care; he’s fucking charismatic and fast-thinking and it makes it very hard not to want to engage. He decides to sit on the floor behind the seats.

“ _They_ were obviously trying to pass for pirates. Disparate ships, lots of bumps and rust in the obvious places. But if pirates in this system had such accelerations and fire power we’d all be dead already. Uh. Master. We’d be dead, Master.”

“What if they really were pirates with decent ships for a change? The High Lord is a prize worth a little investment, don’t you think?”

“Thing is, Master, they never tried to board or capture. They just shot. And I’ll be damned if they didn’t move like a squadron, and a good one. I’ve seen worse manoeuvres in combat.”

“You’ve seen? Something you remember?”

“Uh. No, I – I don’t know, Master. Maybe. I know it felt like dogfight.”

“Hm. Resistance, ex-Republic or First Order?”

He doesn’t know how he feels so certain. “First Order.”

“Something else you remember? You recognised them?”

“I – no, I didn’t – nothing precise. But – their formation was, felt, very hierarchical. Not based on trust. Performances plummeted down when I shot their leader. Thank the Force.”

“That close, huh.”

“If it pleases my Master to hear –”

“You’re on your knees again?”

He is. It feels more prudent with what he’s about to say.

“Well, imagine my blade on your neck, then. I’m tired. Go on, although I’m sure I won’t be pleased to hear.”

“The shuttle was sluggish, because someone reversed my settings without telling. The com handler wouldn’t pass me the cabin. When I tried to incapacitate and capture one of the fighters I found out that the tractor beam had been disabled. The display’s still on the secondary monitor if you want to see, Master. You just need to wake it up.”

“I’m not a pilot. What’s the secondary monitor?”

“On your right, near the red switch. Second from left. Tap the screen.”

“ ‘Removed for annual maintenance,’ what the hell? And you weren’t aware?”

“I should have been. Should have run a complete check-up before take-off. Big fucking mistake, uh. But from the cockpit, alone, it takes two hours. And I’d done one yesterday.”

“You’re making excuses?”

“No. I’m debriefing. I did say I made a mistake.”

“And here’s when I should remind you that you’ve been forgetting, again, to address me properly for quite some time, slave. And that you’re bordering on impertinent right now.”

“Ma–“

“Oh, that’ll do. You know and I know that there are more pressing matters. And I’m sure that after the other day you don’t forget who I am and what I can do to you, pretty bird. And I’ve silenced you. Back to the situation at hand, I’m removing all your handlers and replacing them with people I know are loyal to _me_. I’m having a direct com installed between the cockpit and the cabin. And I’m having that whole ship and her twin inspected with the finest sieve. You’re going on the ground, pilot. I want you on their backs for as long as it takes.”

“Master, please. With trusty people on the ground, I can stay –”

“By the First Egg, you get out of that cockpit! What do you think, pilot, that I’m going to jump you as soon as you’re out? Seems that I can trust my slave more than my lords, so you do as you’re told and you don’t fuck up and maybe you can live another day! And maybe I will, too.”

/

So he goes back on the ground. Only when he’s ordered to, at first, and it takes a long time for him to check the two ships and for his Master to get rid of a few overambitious, First Order-friendly lords.

But even this pretend freedom is addictive and after a while he finds himself asking for it again.

“Are you sure,” his Master goes back to saying, and he tries to read his moods, fools himself that he can.

“We’ll fly tomorrow, don’t exhaust yourself,” his Master says sometimes as the wire unclasps and he takes it as a clue, a perverse reassurance that nothing will happen.

Until one evening after such a clue he sits on the river bank with his back on the rough bark of a tree and his Master materialises above him. “Come with me, pretty bird,” he says.

He doesn’t say, “but you promised,” because nobody ever promised anything to a slave. He doesn’t say, “but we’re flying tomorrow,” because obviously he won’t be in a state to do so. He doesn’t say “you lied,” because obviously his Master did.

His Master says it, though. “I lied. Isn’t that the game we’re playing, my pet? And I waited long enough.”

That’s when he knows he’s been tamed. There’s no game that he won’t lose. There’s no safety, neither on the ground nor in the cockpit. There’s nothing to do but to wait for his Master’s will. There’s no escape.

His own will is still strong enough that he prevents himself from begging for more, and he’s still whole enough afterwards that he manages to make it to the medcentre by himself once his master allows it.

As the months pass by it becomes a kind of unpredictable, rhythm-less routine. “At least”, he tells Freia, “we get to see each other more often that way.” She doesn’t smile at his poor attempt at humour, frowns instead as she surveys his chart and looks at the untouched food on his tray.

/

He’s in the medcentre again, recovering, but more slowly than before. He’s still not hungry. Freia sits by his side, frowning again but not at him, looking pale and wan and worried.

“Freia? Are you okay? You don’t look well.”

“No.”

“Come on, girl, what’s the matter?”

She twitches and looks around, looking scared, then makes a show of bending over him to listen to his breathing. “I’m pregnant,” she mutters.

“You –”

“Yes,” she says, her voice very small.

“Come on, help me up, let’s go to the river. We’ll say it’s physical therapy. We can talk more freely there.”

“You shouldn’t walk that far yet.”

“Yeah, that’s why you need to come to help me, uh.”

“Okay. Okay.”

/

“The father’s tamales man?”

“Yes.”

“He knows?”

“He’s dead. An accident, got caught in a fight between two lords. He never knew. It wasn’t – we weren’t in love.”

“How far along?”

“Three months and a half. I’m going to start showing soon.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t tell me this was one of the things we do to make life bearable, huh. What – Freia, what in the name of the Force did you think?”

“I’d tell you it was an accident, and Force knows I didn’t _try_. But, pilot, I – Lyell already stole a child from me, and I had already held him, and breastfed him, and I couldn’t have loved him more, and, and it’s so hard being careful enough when you want it so much!”

He pulls her into his arms, sitting there on the bank, tries to soothe her as she’s sobbing into his shirt.

“You’re going to want to keep it, aren’t you,” he says into her hair.

“Pilot, I _want_ that child!”

“But here,” he says, “born into _that_. What if it’s a boy?”

“I’ll go away. I need to escape.”

He can’t help the bitter chuckle escaping. “How,” he says. “The whole planet is a prison!”

“Take me in your ship. Hide me. Please, pilot!”

“Freia. The whole _system_ is a prison. There’s no hyperdrive in the shuttle and even if there were I don’t remember how to program that.”

“Please!”

She’s begging and he owes her. And even if he didn’t, she’s his friend. And suddenly he understands why he wants to help her so much, beyond the mutual debts and the friendship. She has hope. A reason to fight.

“There might be a way,” he hears himself say. “Freia. It’s a very, very long shot. But there may, might be people in the asteroid stations who are interested enough. ‘Independent traders’ my ass, they’re pirates, they’ll like what I can tell them about our Master’s freighters weak spots. Maybe I can bargain.”

“Do so.”

“Even if one of them agrees and doesn’t turn us in at the last moment or sell you to someone else, it’d still mean I’d have to smuggle you in and out of the cockpit without the Master knowing. And I’d have to know where we’re going in advance.”

“Well, there aren’t many other opportunities, uh?”

“Nope.”

“Escape with me.”

“Freia. Conceivably, some pirate could agree to take you away, but me? They know whose slave I am, whose _pet_ , uh. Nobody, _nobody_ wishes to catch that kind of attention from the High Lord. Nah. If you get away, call the child after me.”

“Ha. You don’t remember your name.”

“I knew there was a catch somewhere.”

She smiles. “Pilot’s a good name.”

/

Finn rarely finds the time to think upon how his friendship with Rey is going distant but he does now as she hugs him briefly and rushes to Luke Skywalker. It’s not that he likes her less than before, or she him. But what Rey and Luke do is vital for the Galaxy, going after Kylo Ren, trying to know where Snoke will strike next, maintaining the balance of the Force. It doesn’t leave a lot of space or time for personal relationships.

Meanwhile, the Resistance is making sure that there’ll still be smiling children tomorrow, and commercial lanes to connect all these civilisations and planets that aren’t _orderly_ or Human enough or civilised enough for their enemies. Meanwhile, the Resistance fights battles and looks, increasingly hopelessly, for Poe Dameron.

Finn wouldn’t have believed that, but the one this former Stormtrooper feels the closest to is a General. Leia Organa. She hugs him as he enters her small office near the command centre and sighs as he adds yet another black flag to another system on their holomap of the Galaxy.

“Kes won’t be happy about that,” he sighs. “He was so sure it was a good lead. Close enough to the market system, excellent match for physical descriptions, and they do use slaves for pilots. And yet. Yet!”

He slams his fist into the table and winces. “And he was so mad after last time.”

“Don’t let Kes Dameron treat you like that, Finn. He’s an old, cranky, bereaved man and you’re doing the best you can. Nobody does more.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t work, uh? I’d be mad if I was in his position too. Not able to do more than go through ethnographic data. Stuck on Yavin because of a bad back and unresponsive legs. Hell, not even able to _grieve_ his son!”

“Don’t you dare grieve him now, Finn! He’s alive!”

He shivers and probes at the connexion in his mind. “Yes. He’s alive.”

“Oh, Finn.”

She hugs him again and he realises she looks more tired than usual. More worried.

“Leia, is there something you’re not telling me?”

It looks a little like she’s crumpling down. Then she straightens, takes him by the arm and leads him to the other, bigger holomap in the command room.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sorry, Finn. I need you to stop looking for Poe”

“ _What_?”

“For a while. Only for a while.”

“Leia, what’s the matter?”

“We’re stretched too thin, that’s what. Our pilots – they’re exhausted, Finn. We can’t take them out of duty, their shifts are too long, and they organise themselves to keep looking after Poe even when I tell them to rest. We lost Nien Numb while you were away.”

“What? Oh, Leia, I’m so sorry! I know you were close, you –”

“We lost _Sullust_. There was another battle. We lost. Statura was right. We can’t go on like that.”

“But – but I’m not a pilot! Kes isn’t. We _can_ go on, only the both of us. Please.”

“Finn. Look at the map. We lost our last secure support in that sector. We’re in danger of being severed from our fuel lanes. Worse, we could lose our access to the Western Reaches and the Unknown sector if the First Order moves again. One last system tumbles to the other side and it happens.”

“That one there? Name’s so small on the map I can’t read it. Usa- Usawa? Are they with us?”

“They’re neutral. Until now, not very threatening, we thought. Rich, but no fleet, no political power. A species we know very little about. But because of their key position, the First Order’s placing their agents there. Finn. I need you to go.”

“What, me? I’m not some kind of superagent!”

“Not as a spy. As an envoy.”

He laughs. “Leia, that’s even more ridiculous. You’ve got colonels and admirals and, and senior advisors who do this kind of job daily! I’m just an ex-trooper!”

“You’ve been doing this kind of job for the last six months, Finn, looking for Poe. You’ve met all kinds of people, learned languages, easily. You talked to hostile species, made your way into warlike, slave-using societies, never, ever blundered. Not even a small war on your behalf, my boy. That’s quite a feat.”

“But I wouldn’t just be looking for a man!”

“No. You’ll be negotiating a treaty and it won’t be easy. Their High Lord, I think he’s called, leans towards us but there’s strife. What’s more, or worse, when they sent us an ambassador I had the worst time ever trying to even _talk_ to him. Turns out they’re not used to women in positions of power. Now they want a male to come to them, alone.”

“Alone.”

“Yes. It seems sending an envoy alone is a proof of trust on our part and of courage on the envoy’s. They’re rather aggressive.”

“Not so different from the guys I’ve been meeting, then?”

“Exactly. They use slaves, Finn, but that can’t come in the way of a treaty. Not now.”

“Is their skin green?”

“Even if Poe was there –”

“Leia. I get the point.”

“And the one we saw had a kind of metallic-beige skin. Not green. And he was taller than a Tof, not smaller. We need you, Finn. If we don’t get a treaty we’ll have to try to use violence to secure that point. Another war. Will you go?”

“Okay. Tell me more about what we can offer.”

/

A few nights later, his last night before leaving for Usawa, Finn pours all he can into his connexion to Poe. The breathtaking flight of a black X-Wing over Takodana. A Yavinese bittersweet lovesong over the melody of a tri-harp. Laughter among friends. A kiss in a destroyer corridor.

 _Poe_ , he sends. _You’re Poe, Poe Dameron, pilot, leader, friend. Son of Kes from Yavin IV. Loved by Finn. Remember yourself. Come to us. Come back to me. Tell us where you are. Poe_.

/

He wakes up exhausted in the medcentre, smiles to Freia. “I dreamed I flew an X-Wing,” he whispers. “It felt good.”

“Not that strange a dream,” she smiles back.

“But I’m a TIE pilot,” he says.

“Are you?”

“They said so, didn’t they? But Force, the X-Wing felt good.” He pauses. Thinks. “Freia, my father’s name was Kes!”

“You remember?”

“Yes, no, it – yes. I remember. He had black hair. It’s grey now.”

“And your own name?” she asks softly.

It was there, too. In the dream. If he can hold on to the receding memories, if – “I. No. Oh Force, I don’t remember.” He rubs at his temples. His mind feels muddy. “Ugh. Feel worse than the usual sort of awful. Did you sedate me?”

“I did. You were delirious, very agitated. I feared – I’m sorry, I feared you’d spill something.”

He remembers. He wasn’t delirious – or maybe he was, desperate to tell her and too far gone to realise how dangerous it was. “Freia, I was trying to tell you something when you shut me up, wasn’t I?”

“Think so.”

“That’s it, girl. That’s it. I – _I found our man._ Well, woman _._ I gave her part of the key to the phrik freighters and promised her the rest when you’re safely onboard. She’ll take you. And what’s more, she put her hands on the schedule of the mining station. All the moves of the lord in charge. The lord’s going to meet our Master there, in two weeks. _Two weeks,_ Freia.”

There’s a commotion at the door. Several very powerful lords appear and Freia runs to them. He can’t make out what they’re saying but he sees Freia fall on her knees.

Shit, he thinks. _Shit_. They know. Freia’s voice rises, strong and too shrill.

“If it pleases the honoured Lord to hear,” she says, “he’s in no condition to fly. He’s been – last time was too close, honoured Lord.  I had to sedate him. He just woke up.”

Relief floods him. This is not about Freia.

“You _sedated_ him, slave? Without any orders?”

“He was delirious, honoured Lord. He’d have damaged himself. My orders were to keep him safe.”

“Ah, well. What’s done is done. Get him up. His Lordship’s orders.”

Even at that distance, he can see the lord’s blaster dig in the underside of Freia’s jaw.

“Make him, slave.”

He sits up and waits for the room to stop spinning and the pain to become bearable.

“Wait,” says Freia, back at his side. “Take this.”

The power boost is like nothing he’s experienced before. “It’ll last,” says Freia. “For a long time. But you need calories, lots of calories.”

“I’m not hungry. You know I’m not, after –”

“Pilot, you don’t want to collapse, you _eat_. I’ll stuff your pockets with em-rations. You should be able to keep them down. And now I’ll help you up.”

“I don’t need –” he begins, but she’s already hugging him in the pretence of pulling him up and whispering “hold on, pilot. Don’t die. I need –”

“I know,” he says. “I’ll come back.”

/

His Master is waiting on the tarmac instead of the cabin, which is surprising in itself. The ship behind him is subtly different.

“Master,” he says, “that’s not my ship.”

“Huh. _My_ ship, slave, you mean? Nah. Not the usual, I ordered a complete physical check-up yesterday, she’s dismantled. That’s her twin.”

“Master, I didn’t supervise – the settings will…”

“I know. We’re taking a chance there. But I couldn’t have them think I’d fly today. Ha. They probably believe you’re still too incapacitated. Don’t disappoint me, uh, pilot?”

Rape as a decoy, he thinks and nearly says aloud, but stops himself in time, thank the Force.

“I was given stimulants, Master. Don’t know how long they’ll last.”

“A long time, I was told, slave. Well, I hope so because we’re going to pick up an envoy at the system confines. Resistance, so keep your eyes open for the opposite side.”

“Yes, Master. Do we get an escort? It would seem prudent.”

“Only one other ship. We’re underequipped, you know that. If that treaty with the Resistance goes through, I’m pressuring them for a few fighter ships.”

“We’re not –” he’s about to say we’re not that well-founded, meaning the Resistance, meaning to have ships to spare, and he doesn’t know where that comes from. “Are we important enough, Master?”

“At the moment? There aren’t people in the whole Galaxy more important than us, pilot.”

/

Finn disembarks from his recon ship on a faraway station. The sun is still only a small pinprick of light, very far away. A transport takes him in, spits him into another station. The sun doesn’t appear larger from there.

He waits. Nobody seems to care much for him. He spends his time watching. Lots of Humans around, slaves, he understands. Workers. Women as well as men which is a difference from what Lyell implied. _They very much wanted a male pilot_ , he still hears after all this time.

But the women, he notices, look better. Normal. The men, all of them, act as if they don’t want to be noticed, their gait light and shifty, their head in their shoulders. They stand hiding in corners and never raise their voice nor their eyes.

And we want a treaty with _that_ , he thinks.

The dominant species looks very disparate. He thinks the most important ones are those who look like the holos of the ambassador he was shown. Tall, bulky, brimming with weapons. But the size range is very large and some individuals could fit Lyell’s description, in size _and_ in colouring since skins display all kinds of hues, among them quite a lot of green variations. Poe, he thinks. Poe, are they keeping you here?

They could. Like what feels like thousands of other species that Finn visited could have.

A huge lord comes to stand in front of him. The guy doesn’t make any effort to salute, just looks down at him like he expects Finn to bow. Well, tough luck. Finn looks straight back at him, hand on his blaster. He’s an _envoy_. The other finally nods.

“His Lordship wants to see you,” the lord says.” He’s inviting you to his personal shuttle.”

“Good,” Finn says and makes a point to walk side by side with the lord. No way he’s going to follow him like he sees the slaves do.

The one waiting for him at the shuttle hatch is unmistakably the High Lord and he looks magnificent. To Finn’s surprise, he extends a hand.

“So you’re the envoy. You don’t look like much, eh?”

“Would you have us send a member of the most warlike species we could find?”

“No,” the High Lord laughs and his eyes crinkle surprisingly at the corner. “I’d have felt threatened. You’ll do, Human.”

“My name is Finn.”

“You can call me your Lordship, Finn.”

“I’m honoured, your Lordship.”

The High Lord finally lets go of his hand. “I like you, Finn. You remind me of someone.”

Poe, Finn thinks. If I remind you of Poe I’m going to strangle you even if I have to go back after the war to do it. “I learned with the best, your Lordship,” he says.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Action of the non-sexual kind, and a meeting.

“So,” the High Lord says when they’re settled in the shuttle. “The Sullust defeat really makes us your last hope. I _like_ that premise.”

Something clangs and the shuttle unlocks with a little jolt. Finn smiles. “With all due respect, your Lordship, I don’t.”

“ _You_ don’t? Or the Resistance doesn’t?”

“It’s never comfortable to have your back to the wall, your Lordship. But I’ll tell you this: the Resistance can’t, won’t agree blindly to everything. Our funds aren’t bottomless, nor our personnel.”

“What do you think I’m going to ask for?”

“Ships, obviously. A fleet. Firepower. You’ll need it to face the First Order.”

The brown eyes in the glimmering bronze face crinkle again. That man is dangerous, Finn thinks. Charming and direct and _alien_. No data on his species. Unpredictable. “Well. That makes for a pretty straightforward bargain, doesn’t it? I give you an unreasonably high number of ships, you give me an unreasonably low one and some days later we find some middle-ground argument.”

“And we’ll make unreasonably high demands concerning setting up a base in your system, plus some tactical support, preferential prices for the phrik and other products. I might remain quite firm on a few of these demands, your Lordship.”

“Hah. Make it a few weeks of negotiations instead of a few days, then. But you don’t like us.”

“We don’t?”

“You, personally, don’t, Finn. Do you?”

“I don’t like slavers, Your Lordship. I’m under direct orders not to let it affect the negotiations.”

“Oh.” Finn can’t read what’s in the High Lord smile. Something ironic, slightly predatory but also delighted, maybe hungry. “So you know how to follow orders. Mmh.”

“I do. My General’s.”

“Ah, yes. A woman’s. I’m sure you don’t realise how we read that.”

“A woman, yes, your Lordship.”

An alarm rings and a few lesser entourage guys stand up.

The High Lord mutters something incomprehensible then looks back to Finn, his smile strained. “Sorry. Shouldn’t swear in the presence of guests.”

“Master,” says a voice in a comlink. It’s distorted by the device but Finn’s heart stutters. “Pilot speaking. We’re under fire. TIEs, not bothering to hide this time. Buckle yourself, anything unsecured in the cabin will fly. If you please, Master, two men at the aux guns.”

What kind of pilot says Master and if you please in such a situation, Finn wonders idly, in the same second as he thinks _slave, a slave, of course_ , and _Poe?_

“Who knows how to operate a blaster gun?” the High Lord asks.

“Me,” Finn says. “Where?”

“And I,” the High Lord says. “I take starboard. Port is there.”

“How many?” Finn shouts as he sits down and buckles on the gunner harness.

“How many?” relays the High Lord, who’s got the comlink.

“Eight! On our three high, shit, no, nine of them! We’ve got one –” the shuttle climbs up wildly, the acceleration pinning Finn to his seat, then twists and rounds down in a parabola and Finn sees it, shoots and marks. “ – On our tail,” the com goes on, “eight again, thank you, gunner, Sir.”

“You’re good!” the High Lord shouts.

“ _He’s_ good! Your pilot. Didn’t know a shuttle could do that!”

“Well, this one does! With _that_ pilot at the commands!”

“Escort shot one!” the com says. “Shit. Looks like their shields are down. They need to disengage, no match for a TIE in that state! Handler, Sir, relay! Tell them to get out! Fucking hell, Sir! Get them out! They’re going to get shot! Fuck. Port gunner, TIEs’re closing down. Your turn!”

Finn sees the flare of the escort bursting in fire, shoots, thinks he got one blast home. The shuttle shudders as he sees the laserbolts impact and then the TIEs go through.

“Under our belly, your Lordship! They’re for you!” Finn yells.

Things are flying in the cabin now. Thankfully, they’re soft things. Cushions. Throws. From what little view Finn gets from the gunner post, their pilot is getting them through what’s left of the TIE squadron like a knife through butter, clipping a TIE solar panel in the process with the forward guns. It’s mesmerizing, the way the shuttle moves and he lets himself get lost in the dance, feeling like he can sense in advance where and when the pilot wants him to shoot.

“Getting cover near the Mti’ndizi moon,” the com states, voice hoarse behind the metallic distortion. “Those last three are pummelling our shields, we won’t last long if I can’t deflect the shots.” The pilot’s breathing is loud, laboured. “Master, I called for help and transmitted our position, but the nearest ship is two hours from here.”

The ship shudders again. Finn notices something dark pouring out of the engine on his side. Black like soot, or like small swirls of heavy smoke.

“Looks like we’ve got to do something!” the com yells. “Hold on to your harness, inside!”

It feels like the shuttle stops dead in space then pivots on itself. The TIE that was on their two and damn skilled at avoiding Finn’s shots suddenly finds itself behind and he strains his neck trying to see what’s happening. The shuttle structure is creaking and groaning and it looks like the TIE flies in a strange, silly course, parallel to the shuttle and unwavering.

“Coming,” the pilot sing-songs, “coming… Now!” The shuttle accelerates at once in a heart-rending spin and suddenly it shoots up and away. The TIE flies on the opposite course and crashes into its companion. The explosion is blinding.

“Woohoo!” the pilot shouts. “Two down!”

The High Lord laughs. “Interesting! I believe this could be called a tractor beam catapult! Or was that a slingshot? Well done, pilot! I knew you wouldn’t disappoint!” He laughs again, pointing his gun. “And the last one’s for me! Full mark!”

Finn looks at the wing. Below him, close to the cabin structure, the smoke pouring out of the engine is unmistakable.

“We’ve got a problem, your Lordship,” he says.

“Main port engine won’t hold, Master,” the pilot says at the same time.

“Can you bring us home on one engine?” the High Lord asks.

“Not likely, Master, there’s some damage on the dashboard as well. Something short-circuited. Gonna have to land us on the moon.”

Nobody talks for a while after that. The moon comes slowly closer and the smoke billows thicker and thicker, obscuring the transparisteel of Finn’s gun station. He’s still got time to see that the moon looks welcoming enough, bearing high green trees that should mean an oxygen atmosphere.

“Okay,” the pilot says, not bothering with addresses this time. “Entering atmosphere. Stopping both main engines now, there’s fire on board, I can’t have them explode. I’m going to get us down with the auxiliaries.”

“Dammit, slave!” the High Lord barks. “Even I know that the auxiliary engines are for steering, not for upward thrust! Get back on the main! It can’t work!”

“It will work, Master. That shuttle has a nice glide. And now I’ll advise everyone to go into the hold, which will remain fireproof. Or should. There are individual lifesaving pods in the walls and some equipment.  Salvage anything you can from the cabin, especially medkits and food rations. And comlinks. The rescue mission will need to find a proper landing place, could take days.”

A few among the entourage begin to panic at that, pulling at panels at random to try and find whatever they think they need.

“Let them,” the High Lord says. “Medkits are in that trunk. You and you, take the rations. Then follow me.”

It can’t be right, thinks Finn as they each crouch in a pod in the wall. The descent’s much too fast. Is the pilot still conscious up there? “Is the com working?” he asks.

“Pilot,” the High Lord asks. “You’re still there?”

“Yes, Master. Bit warm in there but I’m alright. Commands still answer. We have to glide down fast for manoeuvrability, it should go nice. Now. Hold _tight_.”

Vertical speed becomes horizontal and Finn feels the crash of many trees around them, then an acceleration as it seems there aren’t any other trees to be had, then a very strong impact. The floor tilts at a forty-five degree angle. He hears the dull, horribly loud sound of falling, bumping bodies but his own harness holds.

“Get out,” the High Lord says. “Now!”

There are splashes of something golden-brown on the floor, prostrated bodies, people moaning. Some of them didn’t find the time to buckle up in the pods, Finn realises. He takes one of the moaning, scrambling guys by his armpits and pulls him out, following the lords.

“You didn’t save the worthiest,” the High Lord says, sneering at the one Finn’s carrying. “Ah, not a problem. The hold isn’t burning, like the pilot said. And it seems he cut everything off before touching down. Low explosion hazard. I’m going back in.”

They get everyone out but as they exit Finn looks around, then up, to the burning upper structure. “And the pilot?” he asks, suddenly frantic. “Where is he?”

“Didn’t get out, of course,” one of the lords says.

“Fucking hell what? Of course?”

“Listen, envoy. He’s a slave.”

“Your Lordship, he saved your life! He’s still inside? The cockpit is burning, dammit!”

The High Lord’s eyes shift a little. “Slaves are wired to their cockpits. Tied down. He can’t get out.”

“But you can get in! Stars above, that guy managed to get rid of nine TIEs and got us alive on the ground _without any engines to speak of_!”

“He’s very good, yes. Or was. And as you said, the cockpit is burning. I’m not risking my life for a slave. However valuable.”

“But _I_ am. I don’t think his wire would resist a blaster bolt?”

The High Lord’s eyes are laughing again. “You’re mad, Finn. If you die, nobody’s left to represent the Resistance.”

“I’m not leaving a man to burn!”

“Well, if you want to try, don’t blast his wire. There’s a trap in his cuff that’s set to things like that. Death by electrical shock. Take this instead.”

“What is it?”

“Remote control for both the wire and the cuffs. Try the second one if the wire’s jammed.”

/

The _hatch_ is jammed. When Finn manages to force it open he’s greeted by a dense, acrid smoke. In the dim haze, he can make out the outline of the pilot’s body. Finn can guess that he was conscious on touchdown since he unbuckled and left the pilot seat. He curled up as far as possible from the main source of the flames, the wire taut and still holding strong to its anchoring under the dashboard.

But as Finn approaches he can see the blackened skin of his face, the closed eyes, the lax mouth, and the flames licking at the flightsuit leg where he’s tied to the wire. The skin is red and blistering around the metal cuff on the corresponding ankle and Finn doesn’t event try to undo the wire, just presses the second button and as soon as the cuffs open he throws the unconscious – unconscious, he hopes fervently, not dead – man over his shoulder and climbs down.

“Still alive?” the High Lord asks, coldly interested. “If he is I’m in your debt. Such a slave’s not something you put your hands on every day. Well, tell me when you’ve found out, I’m going to try to organise something for our quarters and test the long-distance com. Oh, and I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself getting him out, envoy. You’re an interesting man. And a good gunner.”

Finn lays the pilot on the ground and looks closer. It’s hard to guess at his features with the soot on his face – it’s soot, thankfully, not burns, at least nothing that blistered the skin. But there are definitely cuff-shaped burns on his right wrist and ankle and probably others under the charred flightsuit leg. The hair is shorn, only a thick, short stubble, black but there’s so much soot in it that it could be any colour underneath. The height would be right for Poe. The weight – he noticed how light the pilot felt when he carried him down and now he sees how thin and bony his wrists are.

The chest goes up and down. Even sitting up Finn can hear a raspy sound with each exhalation.

He finds antiseptic wipes in the medkit and begins to clean the pilot’s face. His hands shake.

It’s Poe. If anything, the scar on his face matches the wound he saw in the holo – _stitches_ , he thinks with a pang of anger, they _stitched_ it closed – but he’d know that face everywhere, the sinuous curve of the lips, that small pock mark on the left of the strong nose, the heavy eyebrows and the laughter lines around the eyes. That jawline, emphasised now by the gaunt cheeks. He tries to clean his hair, grieving Poe’s locks and noticing a scar, the hair growing back white around it.

“He’s alive,” he says, when he wants to yell _it’s Poe, you motherfuckers, it’s Poe, what did you do to him?_

He’s digging around in the medkit to find something suitable to treat Poe’s burns when he hears coughing. He turns to see him sit up at once, then fold over as he keeps coughing.

“Here,” Finn says. “Water.”

Their fingers brush against each other as Poe grabs the bottle.

“Thank you, Sir,” Poe rasps automatically. Then he startles and looks straight at Finn, his mouth going round before another coughing fit seizes him.

Finn probes the connexion between them, so strong now that they’re close, that they’ve touched. But he feels nothing more than before, no recognition beyond the puzzlement he can also read on Poe’s features, and the same old blankness, the same hopeless defeat.

Poe’s gaze shifts to the burning, bent carcass of the ship behind them, then to the massive form of the High Lord in the background. He makes a small strangled desperate noise, half cough and half sob, stands up and runs to his master.

Finn never imagined their reunion to happen like that. In his dreams, their gazes would cross and they’d know each other, Poe remembering everything at once. They’d fall into each other’s arms, maybe fight a bunch of horned evil green-skinned slavers, and come back victorious to the Resistance.

Instead, he’s sitting on the damp grass, frozen and helpless as he witnesses Poe kneeling in front of his master. It’s not an attitude of respect, he realises, but a well-practiced, humiliating position that makes it look like Poe is waiting for his execution, neck extended and head bowed down. He’s not talking, just waiting, and it might be exactly what it’s looking like since the High Lord unsheathes a kind of heavy scimitar and brings it on Poe’s neck. As he says something, too low for Finn to hear, he pushes down, slowly, inexorably, until Poe is lying belly-down on the ground, arms extended, the tip of the scimitar grazing the nape of his neck.

“No!” Finn yells, “Your Lordship, what –”

His hand is on his blaster, he realises, which is definitely not a good idea since he feels a lot of other guys stirring around him, a lot of other hands on other blasters. He breathes out and lets his hand fall down.

“Your Lordship,” he says, trying to look only annoyed, “I’d have hoped you would have more respect for my work! What use would it be for me to rescue your slave if he were to die immediately after?”

The High Lord’s eyes flash up to Finn, then back to Poe. The scimitar presses down a little firmer and Finn hates that Poe doesn’t react at all. He can see some of his face from where he stands and it’s absolutely blank.

When the High Lord speaks again it’s to Poe but he’s sounding his words loud and clear.

“You damaged my ship.”

“Master, it’s not damaged, it’s broken. The fire in the cockpit – nobody could make it fly again.”

“You know that the shuttle costed more than your own price? Maybe I should make you pay with your life.”

“You could, Master.”

“You want to fly again, pilot?”

 _That_ makes Poe react. A kind of brief shudder, his raspy breathing a little faster.

“Kill me,” he croaks. “Or allow me to fly your shuttle.” He coughs. “If it pleases my Master.”

“Nothing inbetween, eh, pet?”

This time Poe’s shudder is long and unmistakable. Pet, thinks Finn. Force, _pet_. What did you do to Poe, you asshole?

“Master, I managed to get us rid of these TIEs, landed us mostly alright with the engines down and half of the cockpit commands out. Nobody else could have done it.”

“Oh, come on,” a large silver-skinned lord says, laughing. “I’m sure there are a few other good pilots in the Galaxy!”

“Nobody you own is as good as me, Master.”

Some things never change, Finn thinks.

“I distinctly remember having a hand in getting rid of the TIEs, slave.”

“That was you?”

The High Lord vaguely waves his scimitar at Poe but Finn can see his heart isn’t in it. Feels like Poe has made their positions shift. Or rather that his master has allowed him to. A few lords are muttering among themselves.

“Forgot something?”

“That was you, Master?”

“The one and only. And the envoy, Finn.”

Finn wills Poe to react to the mention of his name, but if he does he hides it well.

“That was well done, Master, and you, Sir.”

“You can call him Lord. He’s an envoy.”

“Well done, Lord.”

“He can call me Finn.”

Someone exclaims in disgust somewhere in the shadows of the trees. The High Lord flashes a look over there and lets escape a small bark of laughter. “No, he can’t. He’s a slave. Stop trying to make us see the errors of our way, envoy. We’re here to discuss the number of ships you’ll give us, remember?”

“You want me to believe you still consider an alliance with the First Order after what just happened? Your position isn’t that strong now, Your Lordship.”

“Oh, I always leant towards the Resistance, Finn. I think your superiors know it. But as you see, my position isn’t that strong _among my own_. What do you think, slave?”

Finn doesn’t know what to make of the situation anymore. The High Lord just humiliated Poe and threatened to kill him, or probably worse, still has him lying face down in the mud, and seems to think it’s totally normal to ask his advice over the one of all the lords around – some of them clearly seething at the fact.

“You obviously didn’t catch all the traitors last time, Master,” Poe answers. “It has to be someone very close, with the way you didn’t tell anyone about the envoy and made _so very sure_ I wouldn’t be seen as able to fly today.”

The High Lord smiles, all teeth. “That’s the thing,” he says, making a show of walking to Finn and taking his arm. His voice is still pitched to bear. “That slave here should wish me dead. He probably does, though that’s not the kind of thing you ask about if you don’t want to have to execute him on the spot. Yet, today’s the third time he saved my life. And warned me of traitors. Should I trust him more that my lords? What do you think, all of you?” he shouts. “Who among you, when he realised the slave could fly an operational shuttle to the envoy, decided to give up his life for the First Order? Nobody else but you could know, my Lords.”

Everybody around is shifting, looking deeply uneasy, but not one more than the other.

“Rest assured that I’ll find out, my Lords,” smirks the High Lord, swinging his scimitar. “Oh, and slave, assess yourself. You’re coughing and shaking.”

“I’m functional, Master. I could pilot if needed. My lungs aren’t burned. I need to eat.”

Poe doesn’t look _functional_ and the word from his old Stormtrooper life stuns Finn.

“Then stand up. Oh, or sit. After all, the settings are quite informal. Eat, and then you can go take care of your burns. There’s no slave medkit but you can use the one the envoy opened.”

Poe doesn’t move. He’s still lying down as he asks “if it pleases my Master, will you allow me to fly again?”

“I’d be mad if I didn’t, pilot, wouldn’t I? There’s one shuttle left on mainworld, do try not to crash it.”

/

The chilly temperature is still preferable to the burned smell in the windowless hold, or so they seem to have decided. A few slaves are busy erecting several plastifoam domes but Finn has been discouraged to help in no uncertain terms – he’s the envoy, he already meddled enough with slaves as it is. Nobody forbade him to build a fire, though, so he does and sits by it when he’s done. Watches Poe eat emergency bar after emergency bar mechanically then stand up and stagger to the abandoned medkit.

“Looks like you took quite a liking to the slave,” says the High Lord as he sits down.

“You think so?”

“Come on, Finn. When you watch him your eyes are – hungry? It’s quite hard to say sometimes with free Humans. Intense.”

“You said it yourself, your Lordship. He’s an exceptional man. I’ve only known one before that could pilot like that.”

“You did? I’d be interested to meet him.”

“He got caught. By the First Order.”

“Well, that one _was_ First Order.”

“Are you sure? What’s his name?”

The High Lord looks at him like he sprouted horns.

“Name? He’s a _slave_.”

“And?”

“Why should I care if he’s got a name? As far as I know he doesn’t remember. Don’t First Order pilots get numbers instead?”

Finn makes himself unclench his jaw. “How should I call him, then?”

“Uh, slave? Pilot, if you want to reward him. He likes that. And nobody but me gets to call him pet, unless I say so. Understood?”

The High Lord follows his gaze, which drifted to Poe.

“By the First Egg,” he says, taking in Poe’s hesitant, sluggish moves. “I hope he didn’t lie when he assessed himself. I’d hate to have to punish him. Or end him.”

“Why isn’t anybody helping him? I get that none of your entourage will do it, but there are other slaves around!”

“You really don’t know a thing about slaves, envoy, do you? They’d be the last ones to help. A slave is responsible for their own health, it’s been drilled into them.”

Poe’s sitting by the medkit and Finn can’t make out whether he’s doing more than that. He’s still shaking.

“No,” he says. “I don’t know a thing about slaves, and you know what? I’m proud of it. In the Resistance, we don’t have them. What I see here is a sentient being, in pain, and I’m going to help him, by the Force!” He stands up and stops, realising what he just said and feeling a cold sweat flooding his back. “If you allow me, of course, your Lordship.”

“You know that you really remind me of someone. Go ahead. I’ll be interested to see which of my lords displays the highest outrage.”

/

“Let me help you,” says Finn. Poe is trying to cut his flightsuit leg to access the wound but his hands appear to be shaking too much.

His eyes are clouded with pain. When he looks up, there’s not even that flicker of puzzlement Finn saw before.

“If you please, Lord,” he says.

“Are you alright?” Finn asks, a dumb question if there was one.

“I’m functional, Lord.”

“And my name is Princess Leia Organa,” says Finn.

“Lord?”

“You’re not functional, Poe, you’re shaking so badly you can’t wield scissors.”

“What did you call me, Lord?”

“Oh, dammit. Lie down and give me those scissors.”

“I’m functional, Lord. I just need to eat.”

“I saw you eat.”

“I need more. I was given stimulants this morning, was told I could crash down if I didn’t eat enough.”

“Don’t move, I’ll get you something.”

“Lord! I can do it.”

“Don’t move. And stop with that Lord calling.”

Poe presses the balls of his hands against his eyes, hard. “I’m a slave,” he mumbles. “That’s what we do. You’re a Sir, or a Lord. My Master said Lord.”

“Force dammit, I’m nobody’s lord. I’m a _Finn_. That’s a great thing to be, if you wanna know. Don’t move, I’ll get you rations.”

He comes back with a full bag of them and selects the high-cal bars. “Here. You eat, I’ll work at your leg. And sit down, dammit!”

“Yes, L– okay.”

Poe sags more than he sits, something like surrender, but maybe also trust, in the way he lets Finn approach him.

The wound is large and ugly, more than a hand width of oozing flesh, dirt and bits of blackened fabric clinging to it. Finn looks inside the medkit. “Dammit, where are the painkillers? I’d have sworn there were some.”

“Took them already.”

“Fuck, all, what, six tablets?”

“Head hurts.”

“Not the leg?”

“Leg’s bearable.”

Finn looks at Poe’s face. What he took for particularly resistant smudges of soot around his eyes aren’t, he realises. “Migraine?” he asks.

Poe nods and then winces. “Will get better with the painkillers. Uh. In a while.”

“Six tablets. You could overdose on that.”

“Won’t. Not the first time.”

Finn sets himself to tending the leg. Nobody talks for a while but he can feel Poe’s eyes on him. He hears the small sounds of the em-bars being opened and chewed, Poe’s raspy breathing and his occasional coughing.

Poe jerks his leg away.

“Hey! That’s bacta gel you’re applying!”

“Of course! I’ll treat your wrist afterwards. The burn’s not so deep but I don’t like the look of the skin.”

“There’s no bacta in slave medkits.”

“But there is in that one. What’s the problem?”

“Can’t you guess? We’re not allowed. Waste of ressources. He’ll -”

“Poe. I. Don’t. Care. Give me that leg.”

“But the lords around. They’re watching us!”

“Maybe that’s what your master wants, uh? Get his lords to react? Seems to me he wants to know who doesn’t like his decisions. Tell me, it was an act, wasn’t it, the way you knelt and lay down before him?”

Poe looks at him with _pity_.

“You’re sweet,” he says, rubbing his neck. Under the open collar Finn can see a thin white scar running from the side of his neck to his shoulder. “You keep believing that. It’ll help you swallow down his demands for that treaty you’re after, uh.”

“I’m still giving you bacta.”

“Finn.” – by the Force, his name in Poe’s mouth, even if Poe doesn’t realise – “My Master likes his little games. You should be wary of his favours. Fuck, I shouldn’t have let you help me. He’ll make you, us, pay.”

Finn looks at Poe’s gaunt, worried face, at his sunken eyes.

“So I should let you do that by yourself? You don’t even see straight right now, am I wrong?”

Poe shakes his head and winces again.

“Okay, leg’s done, show me your wrist. Lie down. We’ll see what your master does but meanwhile you can take the rest you need.”

Poe smirks and Finn’s heart breaks at the familiarity of this. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Said like a true slave, Finn.”

/

Poe’s eyes are closed but Finn doubts he’s asleep. For one thing he looks cold, endlessly shivering, goosebumps on the exposed skin of his shin around the burns. Finn takes off his – Poe’s old – jacket and covers him with it.

“No,” says Poe, eyes opening. “Don’t. The bacta was enough. Don’t give me that. You’re marking me down for punishment.”

Finn wonders if he imagined the brief startle and the look of recognition but retrieves the jacket.

“Fucking hell. And you saved him? You really saved your master thrice? Why?”

“Ah,” says Poe, sitting up and hugging himself tight. It’s getting dark around them and even colder. “Ah. I – Sometimes I dream of flying us all into the sun, uh. But I - I guess he travels in my ship –”

“ _Your_ ship?”

“My ship. That’s his most expensive favour, that he lets me captain the shuttle, not only pilot it. Thing is, makes it my duty to get her flying, and flying well, and keep my passengers safe. Or you’d rather have me let the TIEs get her? You’d be dead, too.”

No, thinks Finn, _No_. Don’t fly her into the sun. No suicide run.

“No,” he says. “No, I – _you_ ‘d be – don’t get yourself killed, Poe.”

Now he’s sure he’s not imagining Poe’s sharp intake of breath and the flash of his eyes over him.

“You’re chatting up my slave?” says the High Lord, approaching. Finn would never have thought such a bulky species would walk so silently. “Plotting to vanish him away?”

Poe’s getting on his knees – dammit, he’s extending his neck in that horrible way again.

“The envoy was asking me why I saved your life, Master.”

The High Lord puts his hand, not his blade, on Poe’s neck. The movement is nearly tender but it makes Poe shudder and Finn clench his jaw.

“Let me guess. Your ship, _Captain_?”

“You know me well, Master.”

“I do, slave. Don’t forget it. Now go to the slaves’ fire. You can use the blankets. Envoy, I secured the long-distance connexion. My government’s been assured that I am, indeed, alive and perfectly able to lead. A few minor traitors are being weeded down on mainworld, not that it helps in finding the important one here. The Resistance is seething and demanding to talk to you.” He chuckles. “Seems they had a few Starfighters cruising around, huh. That’s not what we had agreed upon, was it?”

“But now I could ask them to patrol the zone, Your Lordship. Make sure there aren’t any other TIEs falling on our backs.”

“You _could_ , uh?”

“We still have a treaty to agree upon, don’t we?”

/

Leia’s at the com.

“We need to make sure you’re alright, Finn,” she says.

“I am. Had to down a few TIEs, but that’s rather helping our case, doesn’t it, Ma’am?”

“Indeed. I’m told you’re stranded on some moon?”

“For a few day at most. A pretty place, oxygen atmosphere, big trees. But cold. I tried to give back the jacket to a slave, a pilot. Seems it’s not done, though.”

When she answers, Leia’s voice is so steely he can _feel_ the effort she’s making to keep it from trembling. “Well, keep working on that treaty, Finn. You know how important it is. Maybe we can talk sense into them afterwards regarding that slave business.”

“Yes, General,” he says, feeling his heart sink.

/

Their moon has dipped into the shadow of its planet. It makes half the sky starless and the rest, that far into the Outer Rim, dark and only thinly dotted with pale lights. The night is pitch-black here and Finn, who’s been living in perpetually-lit destroyers and bases for most of his life, feels uncomfortable. The lords’ eyes around him acquired a faint glow. The slaves are huddled around a fire, Finn, the High Lord and his entourage around another.

Poe’s the only slave who’s been ordered to sit at the latter and while it means he’s being made to eat more he looks like he doesn’t enjoy the attention.

“The envoy saved your life, slave, you now that?”

Poe stands up, looks down. “I guessed, Master.”

“I’m thinking you should thank him.”

“Lord, I’m presenting you with my most respectful thanks.”

The High Lord smirks. “Oh, not like that, pet. What do you think, my Lords? Am I wrong to assume that the envoy is interested in the slave? Or should I say, attracted? _Very_ attracted?”

It makes the lords laugh. Some are checking out Poe with naked hunger, licking their lips. One or two are doing the same with Finn.

“I’m feeling generous towards our guest,” the High Lord goes on. “After all, he rescued a very costly slave today. You’re going to spend the night with him, pet. Make sure that he likes it.”

Poe’s frozen in place where he still stands. _My master likes his little games_ , he said earlier. Finn feels ill.

“Your Lordship,” he says. “That would be – all apologies, but that would feel like r– abuse to me. I can’t–”

“Come on, Finn,” the High Lord guffaws. “If you tell me you do not _want_ him, I’ll know you lie. But,” he adds, his smile all numerous, pointy teeth. “As I said, I’m feeling like sharing tonight. If you’re not interested, I’m sure that a few of my lords will step up. After all, it’s not like you need to pilot in the few next days, pretty bird.”

There are _growls_ all around. Finn catches Poe’s minute movement in the flickering firelight, the way his skin tenses and whitens over his closed fist.

“Yes,” barks someone _big_. “Give it to me, Fa’alua your Lordship. I’ll teach it its right place. It’s time it learns.”

“Ah,” says the High Lord, looking straight into Finn’s eyes. “I’m afraid some of my lords aren’t very nice. Fa’itaaha always hated Humans. I guess it means he’d stand against Human supremacists like the First Order, isn’t that right, Fa’itaaha my Lord? So, Finn. You want him?”

“Your slave can come with me, Your Lordship. I hope I’ll be given some privacy. Your lords’ leering isn’t at all appropriate.”

“You’ve got that whole dome over there all for yourself, envoy. You’ll find it’s well insulated. Now come here, pet.”

“Master.”

“You’ll pleasure the envoy tonight. Do your best. Or I’ll know it.”

“Yes, Master.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Respite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments! It's wonderful <3
> 
> And all my thanks and gratitude to [Stiletto Ren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Stiletto929/pseuds/Stiletto%20Ren) for going over my writing in the previous chapters and helping with all those pesky non-native mistakes. <3!
> 
> I hope this chapter works. I'm feeling sort of not so sure, maybe because I spent too much time on it. Tell me if it works! Or what doesn't. Really, I'll appreciate the help.

Finn watches Poe make a beeline to the part of the dome where the floor is soft and strewn with blankets and cushions – where did they find those – and undress at once, still standing.

“Stop,” he says. “Stop that.”

Poe bites his lip. “How do you want me then?”

“I said stop it! Sorry. Please Poe, just sit down and cover yourself. Please.”

He doesn’t say: please, stop looking so broken, you’re shivering and you’re exhausted and you’re wounded and you’d still let me use you as a whore.

He doesn’t say: cover yourself, I hate to watch your bones stick out that way and that dent in your ribcage and that ugly scar on your belly and that other one on your shoulder and all the others, what did they do to you, Poe.

He doesn’t say: cover yourself, your muscle definition is as great as ever and your shoulders are gorgeous and I’ve fantasised on these pecs for so long and I don’t like to feel my blood heat and pool downwards like that when you don’t even know who I am and what we were for each other.

What he says is: “we don’t need to, to fuck. We can fake it. Then you can rest.”

“No,” Poe says, then coughs. “We need to. You heard him. I told you his favours were costly.”

Finn walks to Poe, still standing naked and trying to keep the cough in check, wraps a blanket around him and pushes gently down until he’s sitting on the floor.

“I know I can’t lie to him,” Poe says. “Please.”

“Lie down. Rest. You’re exhausted, I’m sure your head still hurts.”

“My head’s better. He’ll break me if we don’t –”

“You still need to rest. We’ll get to it, if – if you want. Later. We have time. Right now I couldn’t, uh. Can’t raise it up.”

It’s a lie, but Poe doesn’t need to know that. He nods – no wince, maybe his head really feels better – lies on the cushions and wraps the blanket more closely around himself. But his eyes don’t close.

“You keep calling me – what is it, Poe?” he says, his voice hoarse and low. “Is that some nickname?”

Finn knows he’s been doing that – and now he feels like a coward. What is he going to do? Tell Poe everything about his past, who he was for him, how they saved each other’s lives, and then sacrifice him on the altar of that fucking treaty?

“You don’t remember at all?” he asks softly, deflecting. Knowing he’ll spill out everything in the end.

“I remember – shards. Bits and pieces, coming back at random. More numerous in the recent weeks, I think. I know – I know there was a man in a mask and that he could read things in my mind, so I made myself forget.”

So that’s what happened, thinks Finn. Not the head wound, not the torture, not the bad treatments. He did that to himself, that mad heroic flyboy.

“Then he went mad. Banged me against the walls. That’s how I got that,” says Poe, touching the white spot in his hair. Finn can’t help catching that hand, moves his fingers up his wrist and finds the knot of bone where his broken arm didn’t set right.

“Yeah. That, too. And I remember Yavin,” Poe goes on. “Bits of my childhood. My father’s name, Kes.”

Do you remember me? Finn thinks fervently at him.

“But I don’t remember my own name. Maybe I lost it long ago. They say TIE pilots get numbers.”

“Your name is Poe Dameron. That’s what I’ve been calling you. Poe.”

Poe shivers, then nods and looks straight at Finn. “You’re the one who’s been looking for me,” he says “I felt you somehow. Are you really Resistance? I thought you’d be with the First Order. It made sense, since I was, too. I – think that I tried to find you, saw you with a bunch of children I’d have sworn were First Order cadets.”

“You – you saw that? That was after –”

“Told you, I kept trying to reach for you. Especially when my Master. When he – ”

“Oh fucking hell. I know. I know what you’re talking about. By the Force, Poe!”

“And I could have sworn I saw you once in a Stormtrooper armour. I keep having flashes of that. And of the both of us, in the corridors of at least two different First Order Destroyers. Shit, it keeps coming back. You were my gunner. In a TIE. That’s why it felt so familiar today when you manned that gun. I felt you. You’re not Resistance, are you?”

“Poe. I am. You are, too. Of course you are, how could they make you think you were with the First Order? Commander Poe Dameron, Resistance, Starfighter fleet. Ha, best pilot of the Resistance, they all say. Your pilots, they’ve all been looking for you. We’ve all been. Some of those First Orders settings you remember, they’re from when you got me out. I _was_ a Stormtrooper, I sure as hell am not anymore. I got you out, too, you’d been captured. Except for that last time in a destroyer. When I abandoned you there.”

Poe’s still raspy breathing is coming faster. He’s squinting and tilting his head as he looks at Finn like he were trying to make himself remember. “You had to.”

“You remember?”

“Nothing more than that. But I’m sure. I know, I _know_ I chose what happened to me. I’ve always known. Finn. Don’t make that face.”

Finn’s lying alongside Poe now, resting on one elbow, not touching, just watching him, and Poe gets one hand out of the blanket and slowly, tentatively, cups the side of Finn’s face.

“In that destroyer I keep seeing, you told me not to get myself killed. For the longest time it was all I could remember of my past. I _clung_ to that. When I wanted – to die, I kept hearing your voice. I held on.”

Poe’s smile, with his lips so close to Finn, feels so tempting and so familiar. His hand shifts and he pulls a little at Finn’s nape, brings him closer.

“Finn. We kissed, in that corridor. Or is it just something I really wished for?”

“Yes,” breathes Finn as Poe’s thumb brushes the outline of his lower lip. “We did.”

Poe closes the gap between them and fuses their mouths together.

There’s something in the back of Finn’s mind that tells him this is not right. That Poe doesn’t know what it means to Finn – what it meant, might have meant to Poe back then. That he’s not aware of it but that he’s probably looking for the key unlocking that memory. Or worse, that he might be trying to arouse Finn and follow his master’s orders.

Or he’s just a very lonely, very scared slave looking for comfort. He’s a stranger, Finn should remind himself. With Poe’s features and Poe’s set of mind and Poe’s courage but nearly none of Poe’s memories and nothing of what Poe used to feel towards Finn.

Poe’s lips are chapped and too cold but also soft and so insistent over his and they feel so good. Poe moans a little and opens up and Finn lets himself open in answer, welcoming the tip of Poe’s tongue inside. He breathes in Poe’s smell, still mostly made of that acrid cockpit smoke but underneath it a hint of what had slowly been dwindling in their quarters over time, back at the Resistance base. How could he deny himself this when it’s something he’s grieved for so long as lost? His own hands come resting on the back of Poe’s head, his fingers discovering the feeling of that shorn hair, his nails digging in. Their kiss deepens, tongues caressing and exploring, breath mingling.

There’s more than a little desperation in Poe’s moves as he pants into Finn’s mouth and tries to pull him impossibly closer, pressing his lips nearly painfully against Finn’s teeth and tilting his head for better access. They’re flush against each other, Poe’s blanket bunched down, his hands running up and down Finn’s back and lifting his shirt, digging into the muscles, dropping inside the waistband of his pants to almost shyly graze the skin of his buttocks. Finn shivers at the feeling and finds himself grinding against Poe’s thigh, fast getting hard and wanting to shuck all his clothes and getting Poe’s naked skin against his own.

But something is not quite as it should. Poe is hard, yes, unmistakably hard and looking so gone in his private haze of need as he locks his gaze to Finn’s, breaking the kiss, his mouth red and swollen and still open, his breath coming out in short little puffs that feel like they’re burning. But Poe doesn’t grind back against Finn. It looks like he’s still pulling Finn in, that he’s _making him_ come in, placing Finn’s hands on his body, working at his clothes, encouraging him with small noises, making himself lax and desirable and _passive_. _Hissing_ when Finn’s hand lands on his ass and that’s not a sound of pleasure, fast hiding it by plunging again into the kiss.

“What are you doing?” asks Finn, pushing Poe away.

Poe looks lost and hurt and on the verge of panic. “Isn’t that what you’re wanting?” he asks. “Kissing?  Fucking? You want me, don’t tell me you don’t! You want to get in me.”

“Not like that. Fucking hell, are you _obeying orders_?”

“I want you, Finn, I swear I want you!”

“But you’re afraid that I won’t take you. Or that I won’t like it enough. That you won’t _obey orders_. And –” Finn’s gaze wanders to Poe’s lower back where he rested his hand after he heard Poe hiss, sees the abraded skin, the scrapes and the huge bruises on his butt below, wonders if he can see scars, too. “Fuckin hell, Poe! And you’re telling me you want me to fuck you, with marks such as these!”

“I – I don’t mind! I’m used to it. I swear, I’ll still be able to enjoy it. Please, Finn!”

“No,” says Finn. “I won’t do it. I don’t care what you’re _used to_ , ah, no, I care very much and I _hate_ that. I’m not hurting you. Tell you what, even if your butt was perfectly alright I wouldn’t. That’s not how I dreamed that moment and I won’t do that to you.”

“Do what? Told you I wanted it. Do you think I faked that kiss? Shit, if we kissed like I remember, we certainly made love as well, didn’t we? Dammit, what’s happening, Finn?”

“No. We didn’t. Make love. The Force knows I fantasised about it, and you probably did too, but we were too dumb to talk about it. And now you don’t remember and you want us to fuck, at best, because you’re thankful or because I’m Human, nice enough and someone from your past. Know what I wanted? You really want to know?”

Poe remains silent and Force but he’s biting his lip again, looking at Finn from under his lashes. His breathing is still too noisy and he looks scared, broken and entirely too attractive.

“I dreamed I’d find you and we’d kiss again and you’d remember everything and then we’d admit our love for each other and, and _then_ we’d make love! Ha. You know, like in these fucking tales I’m reading to the children where the prince kisses the princess and she wakes up and they live happily ever after.”

Poe snorts a little at that. “Happily ever after. Ha. As if.” He swallows, tries to breathe in deep and coughs a little. Looks up and tries to smile. “Finn. What if we kissed again, right now, and then you let me admit that I love you? I’m fucking sorry but it’s true, I don’t remember a thing from what we had together except for that kiss, not even whether we knew each other for ten years or ten days, and I, I can’t imagine what kind of idiot I was before not to talk to you about, about all of that. But I know that you’ve been in my mind for the months that I do remember and that I’ve longed to see you, to talk to you, to be with you. Ah, shit, to smell you, to touch you, yeah, to get fucked by you. That it’s your voice that made me hold on. That now that I see you I don’t want to let you go.”

Finn hears the small choked noise coming out of his own throat. He clears his voice to mask it. “Poe. Look into my eyes and _swear_ that you’re not trying to obey orders right now.”

“I swear.”

Finn leans in and kisses Poe, full on the lips, long and slow and sweet. Then he breaks the kiss.

“I love you,” Poe says, sounding a little sad, a little apologetic, a little hopeful. And entirely sincere.

“I love you too,” Finn says. “Poe. I won’t fuck you now. I’m not into inflicting pain.”

“My Master’s going to take it on me,” says Poe. “I – I’m not begging you but you saw what he – you just saw what it looks like afterwards. I promise anything you would do wouldn’t be as painful. I’ve got lube, uh.”

“Shit, Poe!”

“He’s very good like that, my Master. Very good at getting people to inflict themselves their own punishment. I – I could blow you?”

Poe’s hand is still on Finn’s back, callouses rough against his skin as he rubs lightly. His face is very close and Finn can see how bloodshot his eyes are, but also how his mouth looks so plump, and red, and wet as he keeps worrying his lower lip. Poe’s breaths are still coming fast and he’s swallowing and Finn can see that he’s still fully hard. It’s probably desperation, he thinks. Needing to feel alive. But maybe it is love, too.

“Poe, tell you what, _you_ can fuck _me._ That is, if you want to _._ He did say you had to pleasure me, didn’t he?”

“You want that? It’s not out of, I don’t know, mercy? You’ll enjoy that, Finn?” Poe sort of croaks the last words and licks his lips and Finn feels a definite stirring down south.

“Oh fuck yes,” he says. “ _Definitely_.”

Poe’s hands slide over Finn’s body, up and down, uncoordinated and hungry, and he’s pushing his pants and underwear down, the fingers just grazing his buttocks again. It feels good enough to moan.

“Poe,” croaks Finn. “I’m – not that experienced at bottoming. You’ll have to go slow, uh?”

“You sure you want –”

“Told you, fuck. Look at me. Does it look like I don’t want it?”

One of Poe’s hands goes down, cupping a butt cheek then getting a finger into his crack, and then sliding to his front to cup his balls, coming up onto his very, very sensitive cock. “Yeah,” he smiles. “Feels like you’re interested. You’re gorgeous, Finn.”

“Didn’t remember I was?” Finn smirks.

“Not in such details, makes for a pleasant surprise. Hey,” he rasps, his voice hoarse from the smoke – or from desire. “Last chance to say no because by the stars _I_ _want_ your gorgeous ass. Can I get you out of this shirt? Not too cold?”

“We’ll hide under the blanket. _Mmh,_ do that again.” Poe’s been taking advantage of his hands up Finn’s torso to do _something_ to his nipples that felt more than good.

“Can’t,” Poe smirks. “Unless you want to put your shirt back on so that I can remove it again. Do you want my mouth instead?”

“Mouth,” Finn echoes, and that’s agreement enough for Poe who latches onto his ear and down to his neck and then his chest, kissing and mouthing at the skin, teasing the nipples with the tip of his tongue and some hint of teeth.

“Shit. Feels good,” Finn moans, then he looks down past Poe and sees his feet. “Ugh. Still have my socks on, doesn’t feel very erotic.”

Poe looks up, his pupils blown large. “Fucking don’t care. Can’t think of anything to do to your feet but the area I’m aiming for is bare and that’s enough for me.”

He’s leaving his nipples and that’s a damn shame. “Poe,” Finn whines, “were’re you going?”

Downwards. He’s definitely going downwards, but he’s avoiding Finn’s cock, that fucker. Poe’s weight is on Finn’s thighs and then on his calves as he kisses and licks the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, close, so tantalisingly close to his dick, and Poe is between his legs and Finn is shivering as hands knead his ass and part his butt cheeks and a finger brushes his hole. “Lube?” Finn asks, tensing.

“Not yet”, Poe smirks with his mouth against Finn’s butt. “You told me to go slow. Nice to see these things are like flying ships, you don’t forget them.”

Poe’s tongue laps at the base of Finn’s cock, then his lips curve around Finn’s balls, and then there’s that soft wetness again, in his crack, oh Force, around his hole and – “Fuck,” Finn moans, “is that your tongue? Are you going to –”

“Mm-mmh,” makes Poe, mouth flush against his hole, the vibrations making Finn’s untouched cock twitch. Finn needs to do something about that, right now, gets his hand down around himself and moans at the relief. Poe lets him, joins his own hand to Finn’s there, teases the head and prevents Finn from doing more than lazily stroking while he laps at the puckered skin of his entrance, small tight circles and then long swipes that make Finn shiver again. “You like that?” he asks, his breath deliciously cool on Finn’s burning skin.

“Nnnngh yesss, Poe, feels good, your tongue there, didn’t know –”

Poe chuckles with delight, nose and mouth still buried between Finn’s legs and fuck but this is the best sound in the world.

Then Poe’s tongue breaches the tight ring of muscles and Finn lets a long breathy sigh out, astonishment and delight and arousal mingled into one. “Oh fuck,” Finn can’t help repeating as that tongue, supple and hard and wicked, curves and flattens and licks and gets in and out, “fuck, Poe, oh fuck –”

The tongue goes out and there’s Poe’s cool breath on the wet skin of his hole again. “Yeah,” says Poe, head going up between Finn’s thighs and Stars he’s beautiful like that, mouth red and swollen and eyes wild. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, fucking you with my tongue, yeah, you feel so good around me, how you clench around my tongue, fuck.”

He comes up for a kiss and the taste is, well, _dirty_ but also terribly erotic, to think that Poe’s tongue went there, and Finn’s cock twitches against Poe’s rock-hard one and he whines at the idea. Poe lets out a small choked helpless sound, can’t help grinding a little.

“More?” Poe manages to ask, slightly choked.

“Fuck yes,” breathes Finn, “never enough, I’ll never have enough, your tongue –”

“Would like to add fingers now,” says Poe, sounding as out of breath as Finn feels, “that okay?”

Finn shudders – mostly anticipation and arousal, but also some small part dread. He’s had his share of sexual encounters, the most of them fast sordid affairs during his Stormtrooper years, but has always thought it less exposing to top, was always a bit wary of relenting control. His two or three tries at bottoming weren’t what he’d call bad but he’s always thought he’d enjoyed the general energy and skin contact more than what exactly had happened inside his ass.

“I’ll go slow,” Poe says. “We can always go back to my mouth if you’re feeling uncomfortable, uh?”

“Yeah,” Finn says as Poe’s hand goes back to lightly stroking his cock, “love your mouth, your fingers, want them, yeah.”

Poe dips back down and for a long time it’s only his mouth, his wicked tongue licking and stroking and _fucking_ and making his hole throb and melt and clench and yearn for _more_.

“Fingers,” Finn manages to moan.

The first finger alongside Poe’s tongue feels like nothing at all, his hole already open and yielding around Poe’s tongue. But the finger goes further in, crooks and explores and slides, coated in what smells like an herbal body oil of some sort, fragrant and a little spicy. Soon Finn feels even better, the finger finally finding his prostate and it’s a kind of acute-good feeling, in and out, in and out and his ass is nearly tingling.

One of his hands grabs reflexively at Poe’s scalp as the tongue leaves his rim and licks the soft delicate skin between hole and balls and a second finger joins the first. Finn jumps a little, clenches and releases and his fingers curl on Poe’s head. The little pang of grief at the loss of Poe’s locks shows up again but as the fingers rake the short dense stubble Poe _moans_ and pushes his head into Finn’s hand, his mouth going up from Finn’s balls to his cock in the process.

“Mmh,” says Finn after massaging and raking for some time, all the while twisting and fucking himself over Poe’s fingers, “you’re sensitive there, Poe? Like your hair petted?”

But Poe stops all he’s doing for half a second while the muscles in his neck and shoulders visibly tense, and suddenly Finn is very aware of the webbing of thin scars there. _Shit_ , thinks Finn, _petted_. _Pet_ , oh no. “It’s alright,” he says, “you’re alright, Poe, I love you, you’re doing so good –”

“Love you,” mumbles Poe, his lips against Finn’s cock, his fingers resuming their scissoring-twisting motion. “Love you too, Finn.” He breathes in deep, smiles up to Finn. “Third finger?”

“Go on,” says Finn, feeling himself tremble with anticipation and an unexpected wave of tenderness.

It feels tight with three fingers in, not painful but tight and Poe must feel it because he doesn’t move for a while, just comes up and lands kisses all along Finn’s collarbone, up his neck and on the corner of his mouth, then back down to Finn’s nipples which helps, oh how it helps and Finn tells him so. The fingers move then, strong pressure and light touches, slowly working Finn open and so, so nicely relaxed.

Finn watches Poe, the intensity of the least of his moves, the way his free hand roams all over Finn’s body, seemingly never having enough of the his skin; he listens to him, to his reverent silence and his small uncontrollable moans and his endearments. Poe is making love to him in a way that’s as far removed as possible to whatever fucking he had to endure as a slave, Finn realises, asking for permission every step of the way, taking pleasure in touch and smell and taste, _calling the moves_.

“You want a fourth?” Poe breathes in Finn’s ear. “Or my cock? Stars you’re so beautiful, Finn, I wish you could see yourself, all open around my hand like that, and your cock, Force –”

“Cock,” manages Finn, choking a little, “but slowly –”

“As slow as you want, love,” says Poe, “you tell me if I can go, how deep. Want to stay on your back?”

“Yeah, want to see you, Poe. Want to – of Force, Poe, you’re here, in front of me, making love to me, here, I can’t believe it, with me –”

“I am,” says Poe, looking, sounding fierce, but also brittle and perhaps sad.

His fingers leave Finn’s hole and he straightens up on his knees. He’s beautiful like that,  with his arresting face and wide shoulders and strong thighs, his body a survivor’s – alive, thinks Finn, thank the Force he’s alive, – his cock mouth-wateringly gorgeous, a deep dark colour, long and not too thick and fully hard, curving up and a little to the left. Finn can’t help extending a hand to it, circling its girth, pushing firmly up and back down. Poe gasps.

“Want this in me, oh Force,” moans Finn, “ _come on_ , _Poe!_ ”

Poe slickens his cock, positions himself and pushes in – barely, maybe a third of his length in. It doesn’t hurt at all but it does already feel uncomfortably _full_ , tight-not-quite-burning against his entrance, like he can’t take more, like Poe shouldn’t move at all.

And he doesn’t. And then he does, a tiny movement to push himself just a little further in and Finn can’t help tensing.

“Okay?” Poe asks. “Finn, if it doesn’t feel good we don’t have to go on, I can’t, I don’t want to cause you pain, not even a little bit.”

“Give me a little time,” breathes Finn. “To adjust. I’m good.”

“No,” says Poe. “You look okay, maybe, not good. Wait a minute.”

He pulls off and it feels like a loss, Finn was adjusting, he really was. Then Poe pushes Finn’s knees further up and apart, gathers cushions to raise his ass higher and Finn can see how it’s going to be, Poe leaning down with all his weight on Finn’s legs and torso as he pounds his ass. Finn feels open and exposed and helpless and it never was something he enjoyed before, but this is Poe he’s relenting control to and as Poe kisses his thighs and his hands and everything he can get his mouth on it actually feels good, more than good.

Finn smiles and nods and Poe slides in again. He still feels very full but this time Poe’s cock slides easily and it’s Finn who moves his hips, tries to meet up Poe’s small involuntary jerk, oh fuck it burns and it’s sort of hard to breathe but it’s _good_ , and it gets Poe sheathed in to the hilt.

The breathy gasp that comes out of Finn’s throat has a lot of surprise in it, and also delight and anticipation. It makes Poe laugh, really laugh. “Love you, Finn,” he says. “Feels so damn good.”

Finn’s so full and so open and the skin of his entrance tingles and his hole yearns for more, for friction, for movement. “Dammit, Poe,” he whines, “move!”

“Okay,” says Poe, worry or care battling with growing arousal on his features. He slides out, slow, then back in, still slow but deep, leaning heavy over Finn, his breath hot on Finn’s shoulder. He can feel the tremor in Poe’s arms as he fights not to strike deeper, faster and Finn wants it too, gets his hands on Poe’s hips and pulls him in. Poe’s long, breathy moan is a thing of beauty. “You love being filled,” he breathes, “love feeling me all in, uh, oh Stars you’re so tight, Finn –”

“Yes,” says Finn, “you, I love – you, your cock, oh Force, come back in –”

They move together now, hips rolling up against hips in a languid, fervent rhythm, like a wave. Finn’s cock has never been harder and is already leaking but he doesn’t touch it, would do anything for this to last, and he feels surges of pleasure already coming in, feels his ass clench and unclench and wonders whether that pleasure comes only from him or whether he also feels Poe’s.

“Mmmh,” whispers Poe in his ear, “I think I can make the angle better, wait, here –” and now he hits Finn’s prostate and Finn can’t answer, just lets the short gasps come out of his mouth, cants his hips to get more, faster, deeper. His cock is twitching, bumping into Poe’s stomach everything Poe bends in, and then –

And then Poe stops, still half in, shaking with the effort. His eyes are dark, pupils blown up with desire, a line creased deep between his eyebrows, pulling at his scar.

“Finn,” he says, “tell me you’re not doing this just to save me from my Master.”

Finn actually whines, trying to get Poe to resume moving, to come back. It doesn’t work.

“Poe, fucking hell, just look at me, I’m already so gone I’m doing everything I can not to come on the spot! Force, I love your cock, come in, come back, Poe!”

“Sometimes,” says Poe, “you can make someone’s body react and enjoy when – when their mind doesn’t. You’re not used being in this position, Finn, being taken, I don’t want to make you come like that if you don’t like it, please, Finn –”

 _Damn all slavers to the deepest void_ , thinks Finn, now who did that to him? He pulls Poe into his arms, cradles his head in the crook of his shoulder, still feels both their cocks so hard and both their hearts beating so fast, can’t help move his hips a little and feels Poe’s dick answer. _Lyell_ , he suddenly remembers, Lyell who was _not a good guy_ and more than half in love with Poe and who wouldn’t have _hurt_ him.

“I love it,” he tells Poe, his lips on his hair, his temple, kissing inbetween words. “With all my mind. My heart, Poe. Promise. Hell, this is so good, with you, like that, I’d do it every day of my life.” _Every day_. It sends a pang of dread into his heart but he manages to bury it deep. “Look,” he says and reaches for the connexion between them, feels that trickle of Force awareness bond them.

“Oh Force, _Finn,_ ” Poe says, and Finn knows that what he poured into the bond wasn’t only his arousal and his pleasure, but also his love and his fears; and now he feels Poe’s maddening desire as well, his love so strong that it survived even the loss of his memory, and how all of this obscures what lies around, how Poe won’t let him, won’t let himself see what’s coming after.

Finn pulls Poe’s face against his and kisses him like it could erase everything and he feels Poe resume his long, slow, deep strokes inside him. “Faster,” urges Finn, “I can’t, please, faster –”

Poe sucks in a breath, lets his head fall down on Finn’s shoulder, lets his weight bear down on Finn’s legs and chest and pounds in at once, does it again, balls-deep, fast and hard. His skin is slick with sweat and Finn feels his own body heat up at the contact, raises his hips even higher to follow Poe’s rhythm, feels Poe’s ever-growing arousal interlaced with his own.

He’d never thought he’d enjoy the physicality of it so much. The friction inside himself, the pounding and the filling, pushing up in answer and pulling Poe in, Poe’s body heavy over his own, his own trapped legs, his open ass, his aching cock, the smell of sex and the sweat in his eyes. But what makes it is that it’s Poe he’s opening to, Poe who’s shattering his soul in a million pieces and making it anew with the gentleness, no, the reverence with which he’s taking him, and the dedication and the intensity.

It feels incredible to feel Poe above him beginning to lose all restraint, to feel his control shatter in the pleasure of Finn’s body, his rhythm erratic, his mouth and hands roaming and touching and licking and kissing and kneading without any logic nor aim. Finn is lost in the bonding both of their bodies and their minds and can’t tell anymore if it’s his own climax that’s building or if it’s Poe’s, and they both shout, and they’re still not done, Poe’s and Finn’s hand entwining over Finn’s cock, stroking and pumping as Finn raises his hips higher, holds them in the air for Poe to pound into his hole, hard, harder, the hardest he can and he doesn’t know if he tells that aloud but he’s sure Poe knows as his strokes become frenetic and Finn clenches hard and they finally _yell_ together, sharing their orgasm, Finn’s come spilling between their fused bodies as Poe’s cock twitches and comes and keeps coming inside him.

Poe collapses on top of Finn and they stay like this for a long while. Finn is running his hands from hair to buttocks over Poe’s back, feeling the vertebrae stick out and the too numerous bumps of old bone breaks and scars. But right now he feels content and this is only a part of what Poe is, a survivor. Alive. Breathing. Able to make love in that glorious manner.

Poe is panting at first but his breathing slows down gradually and Finn watches goosebumps erupt on his skin. He manages to free his arm and shoulder enough to grab the blanket and cover them both, noticing in the process that he’s still wearing one sock. The second one must have flown away, lost in action somewhere.

“Poe,” Finn whispers finally. “It’s not that you are that heavy but I’m beginning to have trouble breathing. And we’re gonna get all sticky.”

“Mmmh,” Poe breathes, only burying his face deeper into Finn’s neck and clinging harder to Finn’s shoulders.

“You’re falling asleep?”

“Mm-mmmh.”

“You are.”

He pushes Poe carefully on his side, feeling Poe’s softened cock slip out of his ass. They’ve made quite a mess. Poe groans softly and nuzzles against him, warm and naked and sleepy. And damn sticky. Finn looks around for some ‘fresher and sees only a kind of portable water dispenser. There are probably towels somewhere but the only thing he can spot is a pile of bed linens. It’s much too cold to attempt an outing in search of more adequate washing facilities and he doesn’t particularly wish to meet any of the leering lords if they’re still out and about, so that will do.

The soft floor part of the floor is wide enough that they don’t have to sleep in the wet spot but Finn still covers it with bedsheet and blankets when he comes back scrubbed as clean as he can, a wet cloth, really a wet cushion cover in hand. Poe looks completely out, not quite asleep but sluggish and exhausted, so Finn sets himself to clean him.

“No, Lord, no, I should do that!” mumbles Poe, opening his eyes with difficulty, head swivelling from side to side and looking disoriented. It _hurts_.

“Poe,” Finn says softly, taking his hand, the only touch he thinks Poe won’t feel too invasive or threatening. “I’m Finn. Not a lord. Let me.”

“Oh.” Poe smiles, back to looking sleepy and content. “Finn.” He closes his eyes.

Finn resumes his ministrations, cleaning Poe’s cock first, unable to avoid looking at the scary, extensive bruises and half-healed tears on his ass and perineum. _Force_. Poe’s cock firms a little under his hands and Poe utters a small moan. “Feels good,” he murmurs without opening his eyes.

“Want another go?” asks Finn, wondering if his own ass would withstand it. But maybe a nice twin handjob…

“Nah. ‘s good, being touched like that. Mmmh. Go on.”

It’s hard to clean the bruised and chafed inner thighs with touches that feel light enough but Poe doesn’t even stir. Finn soon sets to work on his stomach, cleaning that trail of curly hair going down from his navel to his groin and remembering how he used to ogle it before. There’s that scar running alongside it now, straight and long, gone bumpy and red around _stitch marks_ , fuck them all, that are even more prominent than the ones on his face. It looks like a surgery scar and Finn shivers with the realisation of how close Poe came to dying. He makes a faster work of his chest, arms and face, feeling sleepy and Poe having gone completely unresponsive, his limbs heavy under Finn’s ministrations. Poe looks fast asleep now, breath even and eyelids still, not even dreaming. But when Finn slips under the covers at his side he utters a small hoarse sigh and rolls into Finn’s arms, lodging a knee between Finn’s legs and throwing an arm over his back.

Finn doesn’t move, looks at Poe’s face so close to his own, at the prominent cheekbones and hollow cheeks, at the scar, this one already gone thin and silvery, bisecting his eyebrow and going down to the jaw. Does he love this new Poe, like he loved him before? This broken, past-less man? He feels something rise up, fierce and violent, at the thought.

Of course he loves him. The old Poe is still there, his intellect, his recklessness, even his old selflessness – he saved his master, by the Force! – and even now there are shards of his memories surfacing, with the promise of more. One day, Finn thinks – hopes, – he’ll be himself again – but – no. There’s more than memory loss at stake. The marks of his enslavement are deep, maybe forever, and it colours the way Finn sees him. There never was such fierce protectiveness in the way he dreamed of Poe before. Nor so much grief, and so much thirst for revenge.

And Poe, who certainly loves him but doesn’t remember why, what could love mean for him? Lust, certainly. A way to prove each other they’re alive and functional – Force, that word – enough. Dependency. Finn’s anonymous presence has been Poe’s lifeline for as long as he remembers and that’s more than a little scary. Lack of options. He clings at Finn right now as if Finn were the only man in his whole world and maybe he is.

Noting of this makes for a healthy relationship. Maybe it won’t last, Finn so protective, Poe so dependent – maybe if Poe heals, he’ll need his freedom to love someone else. Is that, Finn wonders suddenly, how Poe saw the ex-Stormtrooper he had named before? Someone who wasn’t in any state to make a choice?

Poe, he supposes, thought he did the right thing then – some good it did them in the end. So Finn decides to go on, wills it to work, wants them to build and heal together.

Then he realises they’re not given the time to try. He’s got a treaty to negotiate and Leia was clear enough that it means leaving Poe behind. Maybe, no, probably, for ever.

In the quiet darkness of the dome, huddled under the covers with Poe flush against him, he wonders if he can chose the future of the Resistance over Poe’s.

He finally falls asleep with Poe’s warm breath on his cheek.

/

Finn wakes up to the sound of crinkling foil. The dome is still dark, the only lights those of the control panel at the door. Poe is sitting cross-legged on the floor, close to Finn, peeling the protective layer off yet another ration bar. There’s a sizeable heap of crumpled foil near his knee. He’s back into his tattered flightsuit but has added Finn’s – Poe’s – old jacket over it.

Poe’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Slept well?” he asks.

“The jacket – you remember?”

Poe’s gaze turns inwards. “No, I, ah, not really. I – don’t remember, but I - feel something, I think. It felt good putting it on.”

“It was yours. You gave it to me. Twice. Do you want it back?”

“You know I can’t. Finn, what we had tonight doesn’t change – ah, it can wait. It’s still night.”

Finn can’t help the yawn. “I feel like I slept forever.”

“Oh, but you did! You slept for a long time. It’s slaves’ hour now.”

“Slaves’ hour?”

“Our masters have a longer circadian rhythm that Humans. Seems that this moon accommodates them well. Downworld, this is the hour Human slaves have for themselves.”

“Mmmh. You know, I had a good night. You – you clung to me like a Dagobah vine. Felt nice.”

Poe sort of blushes, though it’s hard to really tell in the dim light. “I did? Don’t remember.”

“Not surprising, you went out like a candle. Feel better?”

“Yeah. I’m hungry. Uh, want some?”

Finn nods, sits up, and winces. “Ouch,” he says, smiling. “My ass will take some time to recover from that pounding.”

Of course Poe’s face is fast darkening at that, _shit_. “It’s a good kind of hurt,” Finn hurries to say. “My ass and I really enjoyed last night’s fucking.”

“Sorry,” says Poe. “I know I –”

“Actually, uh, what about making good use of that slaves’ hour, Poe?”

Poe looks brittle but he smiles and leans towards Finn to kiss him. “Yeah,” he says against Finn’s mouth. “Let’s make ourselves some nice memories. Agree not to go anywhere near each other’s butt, though?”

“Sure,” chuckles Finn, then he swallows hard as Poe’s hand begins to roam southwards. “Got something in mind?”

“Just that”, says Poe, palm pressing against Finn’s cock.

“Nice,” breathes Finn. “Except you’re clothed. Where’s that damn zipper?”

Zipper found and duly opened, Poe finally stands as naked as Finn, his cock already at half-mast.

“Come under the covers, Poe, it’s chilly in that dome.”

It’s a bittersweet kind of love they’re making, all kisses and touches and just cocks grinding together. They don’t talk but they moan and gasp and none of them ever closes his eyes. They can’t get enough of it, of that slick rubbing in the circle of the fist they make with their entwined fingers, skin against skin, lips against lips, and it feels like a goodbye.

Finn comes first with a raw, powerful shout, spilling between their bodies, long ribbons of come up Poe’s chest and neck and a few drops on his jaw, and for one instant he watches Poe watching him with huge, dark, bottomless eyes. Then he trails his lips along Poe’s chin, kisses him deep and goes down, engulfing Poe’s cock in his mouth.

“What –” says Poe, “no, you don’t have –”

“But I want,” says Finn, coming up for air, “I want it so much.”

“Finn, I’m close, I’m going to come –”

“–in my mouth, do it,” says Finn, and dips back down to take as much of Poe’s length as he can. He feels the head push against the back of his throat and the underside throb under his tongue and Poe’s thighs tremble with the effort not to move, not to tumble over the edge, and then Poe comes with the long helpless “fuuuuuuuck” of someone who would have wanted so much to make it last.

“Shit, Finn, you feel too good,” says Poe, sounding if possible at once whiny and content. It makes all of this feel so normal in its imperfection and it breaks Finn’s heart.

“Your lips are beautiful,” says Poe. “Delightful. And I’m not saying that only because they were around my cock.” He wipes the corner of Finn’s mouth with his thumb and leans in for a kiss. Then his fingers come up, smoothening the line of Finn’s eyebrows. “Your whole face is gorgeous. The arch of your eyebrows. Your eyes. The line of your jaw, by the Stars, the way you project it forward when you’re annoyed or challenged.”

Poe’s hands slide down the sides of Finn’s face, fingers caressing lightly. “Your cheeks. They are – plump. As delicious as your mouth. I remember now –”

“You remember?” Finn can’t help prompting.

“Not much. But I do remember them telling me you’d woken up. I felt – elated? Went to see you. I remember thinking these cheeks, these lips, so, so plump, they made you look delicious, so healthy and whole. I thought it was a wonder. I don’t know why. I know I nearly told you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“So it seems. I’m telling you now. Your ass, as well, your ass is beautiful. Delightful, too.” He licks his lips, chuckles at Finn’s expression. “Delightful, I tell you. And so is your whole body. Those abs, Finn! And those hands. Large, strong, big fingers. I’d – in other circumstances, I’d have loved to have them up my hole, I – Finn, I could never get enough of you, you know? Thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“You’ve –” Poe’s voice coming out so hoarse he has to pause, coughs and clear his throat. “In one night, you gave me enough good memories to last me for the rest of my life. So, yes, thank you.”

“I _gave_ , past tense? You _couldn’t_ get enough? What’s that, Poe?”

“Oh, Finn. It’s getting lighter outside. Which means that we’ll soon have to get out. My master will be there. Maybe he’ll see our night didn’t turn out the punishment he wanted it to be, or maybe he won’t, since I obeyed his orders, uh. But that’s the thing. I’ll still be his slave and you’ll still be the Resistance envoy, making nice to him to wring a treaty out of his hands. Don’t believe he’ll give us even one other night like this, because he won’t.”

That’s when Finn reaches his decision. “No,” he says. “I can’t do it. We’ve already left you behind once, I can’t do it again. Leia won’t forgive me and I might doom the Resistance but I can’t. Listen, Poe. There are all kinds of Starfighters cruising above, making sure we’re alright after the TIE attack. X-Wings. _Double seated_ Y-wings. They’re Resistance pilots. _Your_ pilots. If I tell them to land they’ll do it. If I tell them you’re here at least some of them will take us on board, whatever the consequences. We can escape, Poe! They’ll fly us to some lost place, as far as possible from here.”

Poe breathed in sharply at Finn’s first words, his eyes shooting up. But now he sighs and looks straight past Finn’s shoulder. Finn can see his fist rhythmically clenching and unclenching.

“They’d call you a traitor,” says Poe.

“They would. You don’t remember, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I can’t leave you, Poe. I’m finding my loyalty is to _you_ before the Resistance. They’ll probably judge me for it. Hell, if you had all your memories _you’d_ judge me for it and find me guilty but I don’t care.”

But there’s no hope nor relief in Poe’s features at that. A muscle works in his clenched jaw and he looks torn. And when the hesitation leaves his face it’s replaced with sadness, fear, and a deep, tremendous grief. “Well,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “You won’t have to be torn between your duty to the Resistance and myself. I’m not leaving.”

“What?” Finn nearly yells. “I’ve seen how they’re treating you, how you fear them, how you’re, you’re – breaking, fucking hell, Poe, why?”

Poe takes his hand and kisses his palm, fervently. “Believe me, Finn, it’s not easy. I _want_ out. I fucking want a future with you. And I don’t care much for the politics. Maybe the former me would have felt beholden to the Resistance but I don’t remember enough to feel like sacrificing myself for it.”

“Force dammit, Poe, then why?”

“I’ve got another duty.”

“Poe, if you tell me again it’s to your ship or another such nonsense I knock you off and carry your body away myself!”

“No. To another slave. Her name’s Freia. She’s from Yavin, you know, like me? She helped me remember. And she’s a medic. I probably wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for her.”

“Oh,” says Finn. “Sorry. I should have known.” Yes, he should. He should have realised that he’s abandoned Poe for too long, and that even in circumstances as dire as Poe found himself his will to live on, to love, maybe, would prevail. He can’t help the pang of jealously at the idea that this Freia probably knows more about Poe’s childhood than he ever did.

“And she’s pregnant,” Poe goes on.

Of course, thinks Finn, of course the duty to the mother of his child would trump the love for a half-remembered man.

“She can’t have a child in a world like this. She needs to escape.”

“The child is yours?” Finn asks, perversely needing to make sure.

“Uh? _What?_ Oh Force, Finn. No! Tell you what, Freia’s a damn good friend, the only I have, really, but I could never – fuck, I met her when I resisted Lyell’s order to rape her, uh, he was –”

“I know who he is. I met him. We were looking for you.”

Poe grimaces. “Met him? Shit. Back to Freia, her child’s father is dead and it was unauthorised intercourse. They’ll take her child or kill it, kill her too.”

“And you’re going to do what,” Finn says, unable to rein in his grief and anger, “hold her hand while they do it? Stand side by side in front of the firing squad?”

“What do you know?” Poe lashes back. “You think I’m so helpless? You think I’m just that wreck kneeling in front of his Lordship my Master, uh?”

Fucking hell it stings. Even more because Finn might well have had such thoughts. That Poe’s helpless. That Poe’s broken. That there’s nothing he can do but wait for rescue.

“Tell you what, Finn. A slave knows they can’t win. But it’s not a reason to stop fighting. And maybe this time, just this time, _Freia_ can win. I found a way. If I can fly her to the furthest asteroid belt in, in what’s now a little less than two weeks, there’s a woman who’ll take her into her ship.”

“How?”

“Knowledge on phrik freighters against Freia’s passage. The woman’s a trader and most likely a pirate, so the sticking point is whether she’ll double-cross us. But I think I can trust her. She has a child, hers, on board. She was sympathetic to Freia’s cause.”

“You still need to get your friend up there.”

“My master’s supposed to visit the mining stations. If your negotiations don’t interfere, which of course I’ll have no way to know. So. Lots of flaws in the plan, uh. But Freia’s only hope.”

“Poe, tell me you’ll escape with her.”

“Of course not. What do you think’s gonna happen the minute my Master finds me gone? A missing pilot’s fucking hard to hide. Hell, he might even call _your_ X-Wings to the chase, and you’d be bound to say yes if you don’t want to jeopardise your damn treaty.”

“Then please, Poe, don’t do it. Just don’t! They’ll know it was you. Sooner or later they’ll know. I – I’ll find a way. I’m sure your pilots – they’d land down and pick you up, on mainworld, I mean, you and Freia both.”

“Yeah. And start a war, uh. Me and Freia escaping, that’s just two slaves gone mad and my Master’s personal revenge to deal with. Resistance pilots landing down unauthorised and stealing the High Lord’s pet slave, how do you think they’d take it? Beware, Finn, they’re crap in the air, these lords, but once on the ground you don’t want to start a fight with them. All these scimitars displays, they’re for show. They’re quite up to date on modern warfare. You just watch when my master has unearthed his traitor.”

“Fucking hell, Poe! Stop being a damn, a damn _Commander_ , all aware of strategies and shit, and let me help you! I can’t leave you here. I can’t! There’s got to be a way.”

“Maybe there isn’t, uh. At least I can help Freia. There’s only one thing, maybe – Finn. Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Freia’s going to want to go to Yavin. Will you check on her for me? Oh, actually. Would your pilots agree to escort her ship? That would prevent the pirate from trying to sell her back somewhere else. The ship’s a modified HG-950 Adarian freighter with two twin-gun sets mounted on the belly and a boosted up sub-light unit.”

“Of course. And of course they would, Poe. Although you’ll have to write that down about the ship model.”

“Thank you.”

“ _Your_ pilots will want to speak to you, I’m sure of it. How’s your access to com?”

“Ah. My handlers know which channel I’m on and they hear what I hear. I might get them used to me listening to the Resistance channels if you say your ships are going to become regular visitors. But I can’t answer.”

“So nothing explicit. Well. Your callsign was Black Leader. Anonymous enough?”

“Black Leader, uh. Yeah, that’s good. I – I wish it evoked something.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Sorry.”

A bird song echoes outside. A faint light seeps through the translucent walls of the dome. Someone bangs on the door.

“Lord envoy? His Lordship my Master wants to know if you’re awake! He’s requiring your presence and his slave’s!”

Shit, thinks Finn, grief flooding him. So that’s done.

“Please tell him to wait a little!” he can’t help saying nonetheless. “I’m having trouble with that water dispenser. I’ll be done in a few minutes, his slave is, uh, _helping_.”

“Thank you, Lord! I’ll tell him.”

“So that’s done,” says Poe, an echo of his thoughts. “I should leave.”

“Wait,” says Finn, “wait. You’re – please, wait, you’re supposed to assist me, I just said that.”

“Finn,” says Poe, caressing his cheek. “Any way we do it we’ll still have to part.”

“I don’t care. I want these last minutes.”

“Well,” says Poe, his voice gone very soft. “Let me _help_ you, then.”

He throws himself flush against Finn, presses his hands on both sides of Finn’s face and kisses him. It feels – for all it has, it feels like a repeat of the destroyer kiss.

“Why is it”, asks Finn when they’re finally done, “that all our first times have to feel like they’re also going to be the last?”

Poe looks down and doesn’t answer. Finn can see he’s blinking fast.

“I – there’s still something I can do. Two somethings,” says Finn, talking very fast as the seconds fly by, and fighting a horrible impression of déjà-vu. “For all these months, you – you held on to my plea of not getting killed. Don’t get killed, Poe. I’m not abandoning you. I’ll ask Leia if we can include you, I mean your exchange in the negotiations.”

“Leia?”

“General Leia Organa, our highest authority. She knew you well, likes you a lot. If she agrees the High Lord’s going to make us pay through our nose but maybe with enough ships…”

“Huh. That’s – that’s quite something,” says Poe after a while, sounding scared. “Finn, don’t say that if you don’t think it’s possible, I – I’m going to keep hoping now, you realise?”

“Lots of unknowns, Poe. But I’ll try. I’m damn well going to try. Second thing, uh. Actually that’s for, that’s if you lose hope. If your situation becomes too dire. They’re going to shackle you again, aren’t they?”

“Of course.”

“Well, here’s the control your master gave me when I rescued you. Wire and cuffs. Don’t know if it will work on the new set, though.”

“It probably will. They changed my wrists cuffs when the old ones became too loose but not the ankle ones and the remote worked on both. Finn, that’s fucking great! It’s good that it’s flat and not too large, I just have to seal it in something and swallow it. I’ll put it between skin and cuff when they’re on but meanwhile I can’t risk them finding it on me. Think medical waste seal bags would work?”

“Ew. Have fun with that. But yeah, should work. Now, Poe. Listen. Use it only if you must. If you’re caught while we’re working you into the negotiations it’s going to make things complicated.”

“Sure. I understand. And now, since we’re still naked and dirty, I’m thinking I should really be _helping_ you with that water dispenser, uh? Hope it’s warm.”

“You’ve got warm hands anyway. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to come with to, uh, make it hot.”

/

From his vantage point at the dome door Finn watches the High Lord standing close to the hatch of the shuttle hold, arms crossed and looking as magnificent as ever, his skin shimmering in the light of the yellow sun.

“Now I have to go,” says Poe behind his back.

“Shouldn’t you walk behind me?”

“Only if you want to keep on claiming me. You could try. It would amuse him, especially since he’d think you don’t have a clue.”

“Nah. Not worth it.”

“You’re learning.”

Poe walks past Finn without another word, shoulders sagging but his head held high. He’s going slow, limping as he closes the gap between Finn and his Master. An act, thinks Finn. He’d certainly limp if Finn had tried to do anything with his ass last night.

Poe reaches his master and it’s a surrender.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End of respite. And politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning again for explicit scenes and rape.  
> _________  
> Betaed by the wonderful [Stiletto Ren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Stiletto929/pseuds/Stiletto%20Ren)

Finn still stands unmoving and helpless, taking in the absurdly bucolic scenery, tall green trees, pretty white clouds and fresh air and moss-covered stones framing a tragedy. Then he feels a surge of dread and realises only after his heart rate stabilises that it must have come from Poe. But when he looks he only sees Poe standing before his sitting master and nodding to something the latter said.

“Hey, envoy!” shouts the High Lord. “Finally mastered that water dispenser? Come join me and my lords!”

“Concerning that water dispenser,” says Finn while sitting down at the fire, “it’s a good thing your slave was here to help me. What _were_ those buttons?”

“Ah, _help_ you,” says the High Lord. “I understand he did quite a lot of that last night. I hope he gave satisfaction?”

Maybe it’s the grief and, yes, the jealously that make Finn lash out even that little bit. “It didn’t _help_ that he was so banged up already, your Lordship.”

“Ah. Bad timing, that. You managed nonetheless, it seems? I could see you’re limping, pet. Maybe I should order you to sit down. Or would it make things worse?”

Poe doesn’t answer at once and Finn can see his jaw working. Then he sighs. “The limp comes from the burn on my calf, Master. It reached the muscle. The lord envoy was kind enough to let me use my mouth and hands.” Poe’s voice sounds hoarse. The smoke, probably. And maybe memories of his mouth on Finn’s ass and his tongue and the fingers of his hands in Finn’s hole and maybe talking of it means it still exists somewhere.

There are some exclamations at that, coming from the lords assembled around. Most of them sound scornful. A few sound excited. _Weak_ , Finn thinks he can catch from that big one, that Fa’something he already couldn’t help notice the day before. He sees two others nod in answer and catches the High Lord glance at the three of them.

“Mmmh. You could content yourself with that, Finn?” the High Lord asks, eyes piercing and unreadable. “Yes. I see you did. Actually, I’m quite sure you’re seething inside because of my interest. You’re _twitching,_ envoy.”

“I wasn’t aware that my envoy duties included you prying into my sex habits, your Lordship.”

“Yes. You’re quite taken by him. And you’ve obviously been kind, which means he likes you a lot right now. Ha.” That toothy smile is there again, wider and wider until the High Lord bursts into a mirthful belly laugh. “And yet you’re abandoning him to me. Tell me, whose decision was it? I know my slave was never cured of the annoying habit of having _opinions_.”

“He didn’t see any hope in trying to escape,” Finn says, trying to emulate Poe’s way of steering the High Lord the desired way without lying. At least he doesn’t have to fake the despair it brings out. “And I saw how it would cause a war.”

“Indeed. You see now that our slaves are what they’re meant to be. And that they know it. You passed the test, envoy. I think I can trust you. You obeyed your General’s order to the, uh, bitter end. Against your deepest beliefs, I should think. She must be quite a powerful woman.”

“I’m surprised you’re able to say that about a woman,” Finn says. “She said that she had the hardest time communicating with your ambassador.”

He catches a movement in the corner of his eyes. It’s Poe, straightening up and looking tense, as if waiting for some clue. Finn can still feel the aura of unease emanating from him. He’s at his master’s right, a few feet behind but on the same line as the lords, standing while the lords are sitting, but all other slaves stand much further back. It can’t feel comfortable there, under the irked gaze of the lords.

“Ah,” the High Lord says, looking _eager_. Finn feels more than ever that he’s being played in a game he doesn’t understand. “Not all of us understand how important it is to honour our women. And listen to them. I know I do.”

The rumble of many lords’ voices raises at once at the listen part. The High Lord has his back to them and his face to Finn so only the latter sees his determined half-smile – but it feels like his ears are shivering and straining backwards.

One of the lords tries to take it as humour. “You listen to your lady, Fa’alua your Lordship? I know that after one hour of hearing her speak of her budding trees and the balance between sun and rain I long for a good long tale of battle!”

The High Lord breathes in, which Finn can see but the lords probably don’t since the chair back is quite high. It looks like he’s going to battle but laughter sounds in his voice when he talks. “Fa’olhgo my Lord. Of course you do. But it’d do you good if you could _hear_ what your Lady talks about, uh.”

“Maybe what your own Lady says is more interesting, your Lordship.”

“Oh, but don’t you know? If one of them says something, then all of them share it. They’re not like us, Fa’olhgo. Their allegiances shift and intertwine or maybe they don’t work that way. Always sharing. Always exchanging. Didn’t you realise? Our ladies talk between themselves and then Savili tells me of balance and it’d do good to _all of you_ if you realised it. She talks of keeping the Light in the universe.”

“Ha. They’re lost in their little world of trees and clouds, Fa’alua.” It’s the lord from the day before, not even bothering with the High Lord’s address.

“Balance, Fa’itaaha, _balance._ Power shifts and tilts sometimes. If you read more about history and less about battles you’d remember the time when _we_ were the ones lost in our little world, and _they_ were the ones opening up to the Galaxy.”

“You’re afraid? Afraid they’ll overthrow us?”

“I’m keeping the balance, Fa’itaaha. So that it doesn’t happen.”

“You’re mad, Fa’alua. Weak. By the First Egg, they rise in times of peace! Does it looks like it right now?”

“What you should realise is that how they perceive their time is up to them. Maybe I don’t want them to impose peace on us. And so I listen. And I do what I can so they don’t decide the pendulum swung to far in our direction, my lords.”

“This is wartime!” shouts another huge lord. “Why should we let them overturn us? We’re stronger!”

The High Lord turns around at that, half standing. “You’d sever us from the eggs, A’hulhaa?”

“ _Fa_ ’hulhaa,” growls the incriminated Lord.

“I’m wondering if you deserve that.” The High Lord smirks, turning back to Finn, who can see his scorn reflected in many other faces.

“You realise, envoy, that I’m letting you listen to secrets no other outsider has known before. These are new times.”

“I realise, your Lordship, and I thank you. Your wives –”

“Our Ladies.”

“Your Ladies talk of balance. Light. And I admire you for listening to them, for not giving in to the temptation of the Dark. I urge you to come to the help of the Resistance, your Lordship.”

“Dark. Light. Balance between extremes, but I’m the one standing at the fulcrum.” As the High Lord says that his nostrils flare and his face spasms as if he were wielding a decisive stroke.

Finn feels his sense of unease deepen and he realises this is Poe’s mood spilling out, that it’s been for some time, a growing sentiment of dread. The High Lord’s last sentence must have been his clue because suddenly Poe opens his mouth.

He doesn’t even kneel. Just raises his head, gulps in some air, and speaks. “This slave is listening, too, Master. Seems to me the swing of the pendulum would be better. I know I speak for all the slaves here when I say I hope I’m still alive when your women come into power.”

What is he doing, Finn thinks, panicking. Did he lie to me? Did he lose all hope? Is he trying to get himself killed? The High Lord’s face is an impassive mask but his hands are twitching over his blaster.

“You’re at the fulcrum, you say,” Poe goes on and Finn can see how pale he is. “Don’t you see the Dark around you, Lords, Master, when you use us until we collapse and die? Ow!”

Poe shout ends in a strangled cough as the closest lord, Fa’itaaha, Finn realises with horror, that’s the human-hating one, grabs him by the neck. Then a massive fist connects with Poe’s jaw and sends him literally flying, droplets of blood spraying around. He lands crumpled on the rocky ground and doesn’t move. There’s blood on his face and on his temple where his head connected with some stone. Finn can’t move. In the commotion, with lords standing up and shouting, scimitars unsheathing and hands grabbing blasters, he doesn’t dare.

The High Lord is actually smiling as he stands up slowly and turns to his – are they still his? – lords.

“You hit my slave, Fa’itaaha. What made you think you could?”

“Are you joking? It needed being put in its place! Taught who the masters are! How could you have strayed so far, A’alua? You – you loan your best slave to that weak a Human, let them both participate to the lords’ sessions, and now we see, we see what such an upheaval of the natural rules brings us! A slave who talks unprompted! Who insults us!”

“He is still mine to punish, A’itaaha.”

Another lord jumps up to Fa’itaaha’s side, blaster in hand. “Fa’itaaha is right, lords!” He shouts. “A’alua has upturned our natural order! He lets humans in! Raises slaves over lords! Makes peace in time of war and war in time of peace! Where is the order in that, I ask you? Where is the natural order? And where is the natural power of the supreme ruler when even slaves have a voice?”

Order, thinks Finn. Natural power. Supreme ruler. I know those words. Here’s the one, the traitor.

“He stands at the fulcrum, he says!” the new lord is shouting. “But we, men of the Usawa, were never weaklings, too scared to leave the middle ground! We’re here to balance our women’s weakness with our strength! We’re here to stand in the face of the Light! To embrace the Dark, Lords!”

He’s going too far, Finn thinks. He’s not subtle enough. Most of the lords look scared. It’s only yesterday that they nearly died at the hands of the First Order and now one of them couldn’t show any more clearly where his loyalties stand.

Then Finn hears the sound of a blaster shot and the traitor falls down, a burning hole in the centre of his chest. Fa’itaaha looks down and pushes the body a little further with his foot.

But it’s the High Lord who shot and is now facing the whole assembly.

“We found our traitor,” he says, his voice ringing. “And now, in these new times where it seems I can trust my slaves better than my equals, I’d advise you, my lords, to think hard but very fast of whether embracing A’uruu’s views leads to a long career. Look behind you, my lords.”

Finn sees it now. In the line of standing slaves behind the lords, some are aiming blasters at the lords. The High Lord’s slaves, Finn guesses. Others have crumpled down, blood seeping from under them, and it’s obvious whose slaves they were.

“I had to goad A’uruu enough that he’d burst out,” the High Lord goes on. “And make enough of you doubt me that he’d think he had a chance. So I thank you, Fa’itaaha my Lord. You played well into my hand.”

“Into your hand?” says Fa’itaaha, his words choked with anger.

“Into my hand. Did you really think I’d let a slave get so far out of hand? My pilot never spoke without prompting. I _gave him an order_. And he acted well upon it. If a little _too_ well. He had to shock you, my lords, but I nearly killed him on the spot. So. Where do your loyalties stand? Choose fast!”

Fa’itaaha nods once. “You’ve never been the strongest, Fa’alua your Lordship, but I bow down to your superior political sense. You have my loyalty.”

To Finn’s surprise, the massive lord kneels and extends his neck in the slave’s position – but the High Lord’s scimitar stops well before even grazing his neck. One by one, the other lords do the same, and soon the High Lord is standing over a field of kneeling vassals.

“And now, my Lords,” he shouts. “Remember that I killed one traitor. Do not stray or you could be the next.”

The High Lord sighs as he turns to Finn. “Well, that’s done,” he says. “We killed our traitor and the road is open for the negotiations. I must admit it wasn’t easy. Sitting there as a slave said such horrors to my face. But he’s acquitted himself well, with courage. I guess I should make someone check the damage. Slaves!” he shouts. “Someone check on the pilot!”

But before anyone can move Poe stirs, groans and makes himself stand up, swaying. “I’m alright, Master,” he rasps. He spits blood, winces and brings a hand up to feel his jaw. His nose is bleeding.

The High Lord smirks. “You delight me, pilot. There’s still so much _fight_ in you. Go lie somewhere and find someone skilled enough to assess the concussion. A slave, I mean. The envoy isn’t approaching you.”

“Yes, Master.” Poe’s eyes drift over the fallen lord’s body and then stop on Finn for an instant. Something sparks in their bond and Finn knows Poe can feel the maelstrom of relief-rage-worry-loss- _love_ that boils inside him. But if there’s still an undercurrent of love coming from Poe as he tears his gaze down it feels weak against the overwhelming shame. _I’m sorry_ , Poe’s thought echoes in Finn’s mind. _I’m his_.

/

They cuff him as soon as the rescue team has landed with the appropriate material.

Then they activate the electromagnet in the handcuffs, fasten his hands to the hull of the new ship and begin to search him quite thoroughly – for the remote control, he thinks. That’s slave life, unsurprising and not even that uncomfortable, although the skin of his wrist is still tender – would be another story if Finn hadn’t applied bacta. And that’s the thing – the man. Finn. He can feel Finn’s eyes on him, he always feels them, and sometimes, more and more often, he feels his emotions.

And Finn is hating what they’re doing to Poe – Poe, my name is Poe, he thinks, Poe Dameron of the Resistance fleet and he probes his mind for any memory, like you’d probe the numb skin around a scar for any kind of feeling, though nothing comes. But Poe is what Finn calls him and this is something to cherish. It makes him wish to live up to everything _Poe Dameron_ conjures up in Finn’s mind.

Finn, Poe thinks as his handler’s search becomes intimate and Finn’s mind is boiling with anger, it’s alright, I’m alright, it’s not even really hurting, this is what I am, who I am, a slave, a tool in my Master’s hand.

I’m going to be alright. You gave me hope. I still can fight. I love you.

His Master comes to stand near Finn. Poe doesn’t see it, he can’t, his eyes are still fixed on the hull, so he probably senses it through Finn’s mind, like he feels the surge of hate but also the reluctant admiration – don’t, Poe thinks, don’t like him, don’t fall for his tricks, he’s only using you as he uses me, he’ll break you too.

Poe shouldn’t be able to hear them that far away but he sort of does.

“So you know a lot about us now, envoy,” his Master is saying. “You understand better why I’m being so favourable to your side.”

“You mean, beyond the fact that the First Order keeps wanting to end you and you’ve just killed their agent?” answers Finn. “Yes. I’m not sure I understand your inner politics but I see that your wo- Ladies are much more important that we first thought. And you’re fighting to keep the pendulum on your side.”

“Maybe I also believe a little in what our Ladies stand for.” _No_ , thinks Poe, don’t believe him, Finn, he’s dark inside, only trying to seduce you, he’s using us all.

“It’s a good thing to hear,” says Finn, his thoughts guarded.

“Maybe it’s time for me to meet your General. On our Usawa mainworld, what do you think, Finn? It’s time my lords understand more of the Galaxy outside.”

There’s a pang of fear coming from Finn at that, but mingled with a stronger current of interest. “On Usawa. A dangerous offer. It will take several weeks at least to secure that, Your Lordship, if she even considers it – I think she would. But she’ll come with a strong escort this time, not through your own ships.”

“Of course.”

“And meanwhile I’m hoping we can secure a temporary agreement. You’ll guarantee safe passage for our ships through your system, and safe use of your restocking facilities.”

“Safe, peaceful passage?”

“Come on, your Lordship, what’s peace these days? We’ll shoot First Order ships if they attack us.”

“Then you’ll set up a Starfighter patrol to protect us. Until we get to that treaty.”

“I think I can agree to that.”

“Any demands concerning my slave, envoy?”

Oh but how Finn’s blood boils at that – but maybe Poe’s does, too.

“I can’t request anything about your slave without consulting my General, your Lordship.”

“Ah. Let’s hope he doesn’t put himself in, uh, difficult situations in the meantime, then.”

/

For the first time since he’s been bought into that system Poe is ushered into the slaves’ quarters of a ship. He doesn’t even see Finn embark, and that he can feel his presence somewhere in the ship only makes it more painful.

The others give him a wide berth. He’s the slave who oversteps his boundaries and calls the Lords’ wrath upon himself.

After a while, a more adventurous slave comes to him. Of course she’s a woman, she’s got less to lose.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asks. “Your clothes are ruined, I can’t even tell what you’re wearing.”

“That’s my flightsuit. I nearly burned in that cockpit.”

“Here.” She throws him something which turns out to be a ship tech jumpsuit, about the right size. When he raises his head to thank her, she’s already gone back to her comrades.

/

Poe knows his Master is going to want to assert his ownership over him. He dreads it and hopes it’s going to be soon. After all, he’s got a plan to set up with Freia and he’s got to keep hoping his master wants him whole enough to fly them to the asteroid belt in ten days time.

Still, the intensity of his Master’s reaction when he finds him at the river bank scares him. There’s no place for pretend banter, nor for his usual game of making it look like Poe’s got a choice. He doesn’t even call him pet, doesn’t tell him to follow, he just takes his arm and pulls him behind. The strength of his Master’s grip is painful and his apparent wrath is like nothing he ever witnessed, even when his Master was confronting the traitor.

“So he made you use your hands,” hisses his Master when they’re in the soft-floor room. “So he used your _mouth_.”

Finn _made_ him do nothing. He _used_ nothing. If anything, that’s Poe who may have used him in order to comply with his Master’s bidding. Although he’s going to tell himself until the end that Finn wanted this as much as he did.

But his Master doesn’t need to know any of that, and so he says nothing. Stands and looks down. Tries not to cough, because he’s still feeling the burn in his lungs but doesn’t want his master to know.

“You don’t answer? You’re finally cowed? Interesting to know, that mentioning the envoy will make you shut up."

He wants to react but knows he’d make things worse. He keeps looking down.

Suddenly his Master grabs his jaw with one hand, pulling at his neck painfully and forcing his head up. Fingers are twisting his mouth, digging into it. Up is better than down, he thinks, suddenly terrified of being pushed on his knees.

“Your mouth,” growls his Master. “You know that the day _I_ use it for good is the day I make you love until you die. Has this day come, pet?”

Make me love, he thinks. No, never. That’s never what it’s going to be. Even when I die of it. No, he thinks. No! Give me at least ten days. Let me set her free. Let me see Finn again. Let all of this not have been for nothing.

The brown, too-human eyes look straight into his as his Master still squeezes his face and nearly lifts him in the air. None of his usual smiles appear.

“Maybe not,” he says finally. “You’re still useful, pretty pilot bird. You might even become essential if Finn’s – oh, you don’t like that I call him by his name, do you? – if _Finn’s_ influence on his General is strong enough. On the other hand –”

Still gripping his chin, his Master sets him back on the ground and pushes down until he finds himself on his knees, eyes only inches from his Master’s groin.

“On the other hand, your mouth is _mine_ , pet. _Only mine!_ ” The hand leaves his jaw and for the briefest moment, fingers caress his cheek where it’s still bruised from that other Lord’s blow. When his Master talks again, he can hear the smile is finally back. “Here’s what we’re going to do, my pet. You’re going to use your mouth and hands, the same way you did on him. On _Finn_. We’ll see if I retain enough control to spare you.”

No, he thinks – Poe thinks, his name is Poe and what he gave to Finn with his hands and mouth is not for his master to share. “No,” he says aloud and scrambles for a way to make this acceptable, fast, he has to think fast – “no, Master, I couldn’t.”

“Oh. You _couldn’t,_ slave?”

“How would I know whether you enjoy the same things he did? You’re not – made like us, like Humans, Master, I don’t know –”

“By the First Egg, slave, you’re afraid of my cock? How would it be so different, me taking your mouth rather than your ass? Or did you lie? Did you manage to hide what you really did with the envoy? Or what you _didn’t do_?”

“My Master knows I never lie to him,” says Poe, knowing he’s about to lie, wondering if his master sees through it all. “I pleasured him. I used my mouth and my hands. He enjoyed the blowjob.”

Of course it’s not strictly a lie, but now Poe makes himself opaque, _wills_ his master to take that for its face value – and he does, looks straight into his eyes and _believes_ him. And unzips himself, and that thing right in Poe’s face, still mostly soft but scaly and already so big and pulsating is more than he can take, more than he can see because he knows he’s going to be made to take it, whether he begs or not.

He keeps his eyes closed as his Master chuckles and presses his palms on each side of his head, grabbing his ears, pulling him in until his nose bumps on the so very fine, soft scales of the lower belly, until his chin grazes the hardening cock below. The hands press on and bend his head down and Poe resists against fingers around his eyes that would pry them open, presses his eyelids closed. He goes blindly down, licking the too-long length of his master’s cock, the scales so fine and the skin so dry and chilly and the taste already bitter. If that thing goes into his throat he’s going to choke, so he licks and mouths at it and tries not to think –

/

Later, he does all he can not to remember. But he feels – how his throat hurts so much and so deep inside, how his voice has gone beyond raspy to a hoarse whisper, how his gums are bleeding on the side he got hit, how they’re more swollen than before, at least two teeth gone loose, how the skin of his lips is cracked. He sees – flaking specks of blood down his nose and around his mouth, dried blood on the soft ground and the throws, and so much more on his shirt. His belly still bloated, and the come still leaking from his abused hole. He knows – that he didn’t die.

And he can’t help the flashes coming back, a cock wider than his fist unhinging his jaw, spearing his mouth and his throat, his nose bleeding, his head lolling, kept in place by his master’s hands as he sees stars and can’t move, can’t scream, can’t breathe. The flashing pain in his skull in rhythm with the violent strokes, his moans hoarser and hoarser and weaker each time the swollen tip comes up to rest over his tongue or hits his teeth and allows him to breathe.

The terror when he felt the cock base pulse under his tongue, the certainty his master wasn’t reining himself in, that he was about to die.

The way he begged when he realised his Master was about to fuck his already bruised and still swollen ass instead without any more preparation than some slick on his cock. The atrocious pain when he did. The fainting.

How he woke up in even more pain, jostled on his Master’s lap, his Master’s hands digging bruises into his arms and his Master’s cock pounding into his ass, his shirt already distended by the come in his swollen belly, already stained by his own seed, and his own cock impossibly hard between them, hard and its skin raw as it had ground for a long time against a scaled skin and he knows he begged, in hoarse murmurs and whispers and breathy cries, “more, touch me, Master, more, fill me, stop, it hurts so much, touch me, please, please, stop, if you don’t stop you’re going to kill me, please, Master stop –” and he must have been coherent in the end even though he fainted again because he _is_ still alive.

He faints once more, wakes up in the same room with Freia looming above him.

Wakes up again in the medcentre, feverish and shivering, hurting all over, a mask on his face to help his abused throat suck in oxygen.

Poe tells himself he can’t die now, not before Freia’s safe. He can’t kill himself afterwards, not with Finn still hoping enough for the both of them. But he realises now the waiting might, will kill him.

His vision is blurry but tells him a tall shadow is moving into the room. When it approaches he can’t help shuddering. It’s his master, talking to Freia. Maybe he’s imagining the strange expression – anger? Annoyance? Concern? – on his face.

“I don’t care how you do it,” he’s saying, “I want him on his feet and well enough to pilot in eight days. I have an in-system flight scheduled. And a negotiation with the Resistance at stake.”

Eight days, Poe thinks. If two days are gone – and yes, they are, he can make out the date on his chart – then they’re good.

He lifts a hand that feels like lead and removes his oxygen mask.

“If it pleases my Master,” he begins croaking, out of breath and throat throbbing. If he tries to kneel or stand he’ll collapse and he hopes his Master won’t punish him for his audacity.

“Go ahead,” says his master.

“I would like to be transported to the shuttle cockpit as soon as possible. If –” he has to stop to coughs and allows himself to breathe in the mask. “If we’re to fly in a week I need to check on the settings and try her in flight – the traitors –” He can’t go on, needs the mask.

There’s this strange gesture again, his master’s fingers caressing his bruised cheek along the mask rim, following the line of his jaw and finally coming to rest on his throat. He flinches and closes his eyes.

“The pretty bird needs the safety of his cage,” his master says. “Why not, if the medics agree. You’re useful in the shuttle.”

We won, thinks Poe, and falls asleep before he can remember to thank his master.

/

“You can’t go to the cockpit now,” Freia says.

“Freia, there’s only five days left. You know –”

“ _Pilot_. You’re still very short of breath, you wince each time you try to swallow something and anyway you don’t eat, and you can’t walk more than a few steps before needing to stop and rest.”

“Well, I’ll eat. Promise. Or you can move that nutrition drip to the cockpit, that’s not so difficult. And I won’t have to _walk_ in the cockpit. Just sit.”

“Oh, and how does it feel, sitting, right now?”

“Shit, I can manage.”

“Yes. You can _manage_. Same thing as telling the master you’re _functional_ , huh?”

“I _am_ functional. I can pilot.”

“How’s the head, pilot?”

“Fuck you.”

“That bad, uh?”

“I can manage.”

He coughs, folds in two and keeps coughing. Freia swears under her breath and comes to hold him. “Give me a flimsy,” he whispers into her ear.

She stands up and nods as he tries to steady his breathing.

 _Let me go_ , he writes on the flimsy. _Need to prepare the shuttle for you. Tech jumpsuit for you in our usual tree. Put it on in four days, evening. Find a toolbox. Meet under the shuttle, tech trap, 10 pm_.

“Freia,” he says. “I feel safer in the cockpit.”

She nods, crumpling the flimsy in her fist.

“I guess you have some sort of cot in there,” she says. Smiles. “Okay. We’ll manage.”

/

They fasten him to the wire as soon as he’s back in the cockpit. It’s fine. It’s safety. And the press of the remote inside his left handcuff gives Poe a sweet illusion of freedom.

He coughs, his lungs still burning from the smoke and his throat still raw. He knows he’s not all right. But knows he _can_ manage. At least for five days.

Freia comes to set up the drip and survey the cot settings. He watches her flash a look at the bare walls and the lack of hidden corners. He smiles at her, reassuring. She leaves.

He switches the com on, finds the Resistance channels. Keeps them on under the pretence of figuring out the flying schedule of their new guests. His master would probably see through that, interpret it as a need to reach for Finn, probably. But his master doesn’t lower himself to Poe’s handler’s tasks.

Over there, they’re making Black Leader _exist_. They banter, mock his pretty curls or his showy moves. They give him statements in precise assessments with undercurrents of familiarity and deep affection. They acknowledge his orders and report their progress with crisp efficiency. They work well, Poe realises, long-used to each other, a coherent team made of two squadrons, Blue and Red. He feels proud of them even though he doesn’t remember why.

Sometimes, when necessary, a voice identifies itself as Black Leader and answers. That’s the only time the whole game feels fake. Even though they can’t know if he’s hearing them, their jokes, their calls, their discreet well-wishes are for him. He can feel it in the slight over-emphasis with which they identify themselves, in the edge of hope and maybe anger in their voices. “ _Blue Three_ to Black Leader,” he hears, “ _you copy?_ ” and it’s so clear Blue Three, whoever she is, wills Poe to answer with all her might.

/

The second day Poe pulls off the drip and makes himself eat. Stands up and makes himself walk. Goes to the ‘fresher and lets the water fall on his standing body. And when he can’t stand anymore he sits down and the water still cascades over him, over the back of his bowed head and down his back into his ass crack.

Then he pulls himself back up, makes himself look in the mirror. Registers the cracked lips and the huge yellowing bruises on his jaw, opens his mouth to probe at the hole in the back where one of the loose teeth finally fell. Sees the bruised eyes and the prominent cheekbones and wonders when the cheeks became so hollow.

He shaves and finds a clean flightsuit to wear, zips it above the wire.

He runs a complete checkup. Two hours.

Asks for permission to fly her up. Tries her moves. Fights the dizzy spells as he takes her into fairly sedate tumbles.

“Stiletto One to Black Leader. Look at that Shuttle playing Starfighter!”

He can’t resist pulling a showier move. Nearly blacks out during the last loop. Or maybe not _nearly_. But there’s room enough in space to recover.

“Shit,” is all his com says.

He lands down, spreads out the toolbox and begins to consider ways of subtly sabotaging his own ship.

He manages to unscrew the dashboard underside panels, cursing at his shortness of breath and coughing spells. The cockpit was made to look luxurious, with room to share, and that’s also true about the shape of the command console. Lots of empty room around the wiring and hydraulic circuits, enough for Freia if she huddles tight. She’ll be completely invisible even with the panels open if he can rearrange the component boards, which he does. Good enough, though he’ll have to fly the shuttle again to check whether he didn’t unplug something crucial.

As for the rest – less is more. He considers the most forward component board, partially unplugs a condensator. It’ll hold for the next flight, heating up along the way, and should fail on the next. Short-circuit, fire in the cockpit. He shudders. Checks the condensator again, leaves it as it is.

Finally, he passes a hand in the back, along the dashboard underside. His small holorecorder is still taped there. He knew he could count on the maintenance team sloppiness.

He screws back everything in place, goes to rest on the cot for a while.

Takes the shuttle back in the air, but feels too tired to entertain the Starfighter pilots with some acrobatics. Everything works – for now.

Lands down, runs a checkup – still alright, a few orange lights, as it should. Settles to wait. Makes himself eat.

/

“We’re going in space tomorrow morning,” his master tells Poe at 7 pm. “Asteroid belt, mining stations IV and V. Your handlers uploaded your flightplan.”

“I’ll run a complete checkup, then, Master” he says.

“Again?”

“Master, there were a few orange light I didn’t like in the last fast one. Dashboard electronics malfunctioning. I keep having flashes of that cockpit fire in the other shuttle.”

“You think it was sabotage?”

“Could be, Master.”

“Are you eating, pilot?”

“Yes, Master. I’m functional. I can pilot.”

“You’d better not lie, slave. I’m putting my life in your hands tomorrow.”

“My Master knows I never lie to him.”

/

9:07 pm and the checkup is done. The dashboard electronics lights flash red. He takes his time to unscrew the panels. Hopes he’s waited long enough when he calls his handlers.

“Shuttle pilot calling, Sir,” he tells his handler at 9:40 pm. “There’s damage to the dashboard circuits. I think I spotted the area but I’ll need replacement components. Most likely, references PYG-1216, PYG-9704-C, YBE-1220 to 1229. Do you have them stocked here?”

The answer comes after a while – good. “We’re missing the YBE references. Given the emergency, we’ll manage in half an hour. I’m sending a tech team along with the components.”

“I can manage the repair, Sir!”

“Not your job, slave.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll open the tech trap for your team.”

/

10:05 pm, the trap is open and Freia’s still not there. Time’s getting short.

10:07 and a tech materialises under the shuttle, a nondescript Human of average size with the usual grey jumpsuit and a shaven head.

“I’m told there’s been some malfunction?” says a female voice and Poe realises this is Freia.

“Come up,” he says. “There’s damage on the dashboard electronical components.”

She climbs the ladder and moves to close the trap. He stops her.

“Alright. Here you go. Behind these boards here. Don’t move, and not a sound. The panels stay open for the real tech team and they’ll look inside.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding small. For the first time he notices the slight curve of her stomach.

/

10:15 and the maintenance team is there. Two free men. A slave.

They find the condensator and replace it, as well as several other components that were perfectly alright. Gotta justify a whole maintenance team.

“Some tubing and boards have been moved in there as well,” the biggest one says.

“Yes, Sir. I had to move them to access the area. I don’t think I disturbed anything. I’ll run a second checkup to be sure later.”

“Run a complete one now. The shuttle has to be in optimal shape for 7 am.”

“Yes, Sir. As soon as the panels are screwed back on and I can close the trap.”

“We’re on our way, slave. You can put it back yourself.”

/

6:40 am and Poe’s master steps onboard.

6:45 and Poe starts the takeoff sequence.

7:00 and they’re up in space. He sets up the vector and makes himself eat. Goes to lie down for a while. Thinks of Freia in her cramped dark place under the commands.

9:42 and Poe fastens the shuttle to station IV. More waiting.

3:04 pm and Poe locks the shuttle to station V.

“If my Master pleases,” he says in the com, hearing the hoarseness in his voice, letting the hint of despair show. “I respectfully request to come down.”

“Are you sure?” asks his master, coming in. “Something else with the ship?”

Poe’s sweating. With the way he put his hand on Poe’s neck, his master knows it.

“A few boards and tubes were moved around during the repair last night, Master. I’d like to ask a tech to take a look.”

“But?” says his master.

“Master?”

“You don’t lie, for sure, pretty bird. But that’s not the reason.”

“Master, I – I can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

“I – I need to see people. Talk. People like me. Humans. I can’t. Stay alone like that.”

“Oh. The envoy seems to really have woken something in you, little bird. Now you’re banging yourself against the bars. Longing for freedom?” The heavy, scaled hand slides along Poe’s sweat-slickened nape, dips in under the collar. “Or is that because you think it’s going to be the last time?”

“Please, Master.”

The wire clangs down.

“Don’t forget I tore your wings off, little bird. You try to fly off, you die. Take-off at 6 pm.”

/

Things go surprisingly smoothly after that. Freia hides in the fresher while the tech puts the dashboard insides to right, then exits after him through the trap. Poe follows through the hatch and finds her, as planned, in the astroport bar. She follows a few steps behind as he leads her to the freighter.

He nods at the pirate, sorry, trader woman standing at the gangway of her ship. She extends a hand with a smile that doesn’t reach the eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, gesturing to his cuffs. “Slaves don’t greet free people that way. Your child’s not there?”

“Child? Ah. Left her to the trust of a friend. Bit of a risky move, today, uh. So. The phrik freighters?”

“As I said. They’ve got a blind spot. You approach them at the right speed and angle and they don’t see you. And if they don’t detect you the automated shields don’t switch on.”

“That’s all? They’re still thrice my size, by the Void. If I can’t disable them, what’s the use?”

“Oh, but you can. The relay circuits and exhausts for the aux engines pass too close to the surface at the link between the second and third segment. One hit home and they can’t steer.”

“Now that’s better! If I can believe you. How do you know that? You’re a shuttle pilot with no memories, if the tales are true.”

“They made me pilot freighters before the shuttle. Some of your friends nearly got me once because of that blind spot. As for the circuit thing, it means they take a long time to heat when the ship’s been docked too long in space, so I suspected something like that. I checked at Mainworld docks to see exactly which segment connexion was faulty.”

“And you did that how, exactly? It’s not as if they’d let you pry inside their ships.”

“The heat, my friend, exhausts that close to the hull heat it too much, it distorts the metal enough that if you know what to look for you can spot it.”

“Hm. I need more infos.”

“The girl you’re gonna take onboard, she’s got a holorecorder in her toolbox. The freighters’ holos aren’t that good since I took most of them from the shuttle cockpit, but I annotated them with the precise areas and vectors. You’ll be good.”

“Where’s the girl?”

“Just there, with the shaved head.”

“Huh. She’s not much.”

“Why would you care, woman?”

“Oh. Nothing. I – I thought she’d be at least good looking for you to take such risks.”

“She’s exhausted, scared, and pregnant. I don’t think you’d look so good in her situation.”

“Oh, no need to become all prickly, pilot. I’ll take her. She’ll do.”

If he had doubts about her morality before, now he hasn’t any left. The woman is rotten down to her core.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling. “Oh, something else. There are Resistance pilots around.”

“Yes, heard them in the com, and?”

“And they know you’re going out with Freia. You’re getting a free escort until you disembark her. Take it as a security. First Order won’t approach you.”

The woman barks a short laugh. “Fuck me sideways, pilot! For an amnesiac slave, you sure got interesting friends! You’re certain you don’t remember who you were?”

It’s not as if she’ll come back here in the near future, he thinks. And maybe his name can help if he’s that well known, as Finn seems to have implied.

“My name is Poe Dameron,” he says.

She pales. “Fucking _hell_. And they can’t get you out of here. They must be seething _mad_!”

“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, don’t anger them even more, huh?”

He turns his back to her after that, walks away a few paces. He can still make out Freia’s plea as she walks up the gangway. “Can’t you take him too?” she’s asking.

The woman’s laugh is thunderous. “Oh no,” she says. “Definitely _not_. Your pilot, he’s a big, big bag of trouble.”

He chats up a few other local pilots for good measure, then goes to the astroport bar to wait. There’s going to be guards in the next minute, he knows. The pirate’s going to have cold feet. Alert Security. Sell them out.

But no one comes.

/

6:04 pm and he unfastens the shuttle.

6:31 and the Resistance is on the com. “Blue Three to Black Leader, reporting. We’ve got visuals on your bird.”

“Blue Three to Black Leader. Established contact and got her number. Jump in ten seconds. The Force be with you.”

“Black Leader to Blue Three,” acknowledges the fake one. “Copy that. The Force be with you.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "the trouble with small furry animals in a corner is that, just occasionally, one of them’s a mongoose.”  
> ― Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a scary part in the middle with a very explicit dialogue. I promise that conversation leads to nothing worse.  
> \--------  
> Partly betaed by the brave and lovely [Stiletto Ren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Stiletto929/pseuds/Stiletto%20Ren) in spite of the very short deadline. Thank you so much, dear, and all the remaining mistakes are my own!

Freia has spent the whole flight huddled on a cot, trying to tell herself everything would be alright. She feels the pressure in her belly, breathes around it and wonders if the bubble-like twitches are already movement.

Wonders if that pirate woman is going to sell her somewhere else, now that she put her hands on the phrik freighters’ data.

Wonders how she’s going to remove her cuffs.

Wonders if the people she knew on Yavin are still alive.

Wonders if Pilot has remembered to eat.

Wonders how much longer he’s going to hold on.

The freighter shudders as it touches the ground, then the woman appears. “Yavin IV,” she says. “End of the line. You’ve got powerful friends, Freia. Don’t forget to thank them. And now, out with you.”

There’s even more green around the landing strip than she remembered. The air is damp and warm and she’s certain it’s going to rain soon. It fills her with _joy_.

“Hello,” says a young, dark-skinned man. “Are you Freia? My name is Finn.”

“Freia Solana,” she says, “yes.” First time in six years she’s used her complete name.

An old man is sitting in a hoverchair next to Finn. He pushes on arms that are still well-muscled to stand up, extends a hand. “I’m Kes,” he says. “Kes Dameron.”

He’s got familiar eyes. Dark. Lots of lines all around. Lids heavy in the corners. And a familiar nose. She takes his hand. “Kes,” she says. “He remembered your name.”

The lines on Kes’s face deepen even more as he smiles. His son’s smile.

It’s a lot to take in after such a journey – and a sleepless one. What are they doing here? How did they know? Finn, she notices, didn’t add a last name. It rings a bell.

“You’re the envoy,” she says. “The Resistance envoy on Usawa.”

He nods. “Poe told us about you. He asked us to escort you to Yavin and to check on you here.”

“Poe,” she says. “Poe Dameron, uh. Pilot’s got a name. Not a TIE-fighter pilot after all?”

“Fucking hell no!” spits Kes, falling back into his chair. He’s got a busted back, she notices. And legs that look more than half artificial. This is the man who’s going to lose his son, she can’t help thinking.

“Are you all right?” asks Finn, then he sighs. “Sorry. Of course you’re gonna – ah, hell, Kes, shoot me before I dig myself even deeper!”

“Come on,” Kes says. “Let’s get to my home. Have you got some place to stay?”

“Don’t know. I was a medic here. But I don’t think they held off replacing me and renting my flat for six years.”

“I know you,” Kes says suddenly. “I met you at the medcentre. I think you assessed my back once or twice. Your hair is dark, isn’t it? You used to braid it, a single braid down your back.”

“Yes,” she says, and she bursts into tears.

/

There are a lot of holos at Kes Dameron’s place. Some of a family, dark-haired parents and a dark-haired boy. The smile is unmistakable. Some of the parents together, some of the mother. She’s always young in the holos and she looks a lot like Pilot – like Poe, and not only because she seems to have lived in a flightsuit. A few, not many, of Pilot – Poe and his father at various stages of their lives.

One of Finn standing close to Poe, arms touching, hands brushing, grinning and looking straight at the recorder. Poe’s looking at Finn like he couldn’t look anywhere else. Shit, Freia thinks. Poor guy.

“Did you know he was there when you got sent to Usawa?” she asks.

Finn looks ill. His eyes shift, drift to the holo and look away quickly.

“No,” says a new voice. “We didn’t.”

The voice belongs to a Human woman, rather old and quite short. But there never was a woman who looked less fragile or weak than this one.

“Glad to meet you, Freia. I’m Leia Organa.”

“Oh,” says Freia. “I know the name. You’re the princess who defeated the Empire.”

“I go by General these days,” says Organa.

“Last time I had the leisure to know about the world, you were meddling in the New Republic’s affairs, denouncing the rise of the First Order. Some said you were raising a kind of private army. A general of the Resistance, uh. Is Pilot – is Poe Dameron so important, then? Because I know for sure I’m not.”

“He is,” says Finn.

“He was my friend,” says Organa at the same time.

“Fuck, Leia!” says Kes.

“Sorry, Kes. _Is_. It’s not that I think – you know what I _don’t_ want to think, that’s not why I spoke in past tense, but I doubt that he’d still call me a friend if he knew everything.”

“You’re going to leave him there,” Freia says. “Now you know he’s in Usawa and you’re leaving him there anyway. Because of a fucking damn treaty.”

“We’re – ah, we’re not leaving him there. We’ll try to include him in the negotiations,” says Leia.

“ _Try_?”

“Freia – the treaty is more important than one single man. The future of the Resistance and the fight against the First Order are more important.”

Kes shifts in his chair and Freia can see his knuckles whitening as he grips the armrests. But he doesn’t talk. He’s a soldier, she thinks. An old soldier. He can hate the situation as much as he wants, he’ll never raise his voice against a ranking officer.

“How’s Poe?” asks Finn. “When I left him – shit. At least he was well enough to pilot yesterday?”

“Tell you what,” she says, feeling the anger take over. “I’m not even sure he was. He still had trouble breathing, was coughing a lot and didn’t want to tell me if his headache was getting worse. And that fucking poison building up in his system –”

“What poison?” Finn’s hands are trembling.

“Didn’t know? Didn’t want to see, maybe, uh? Fucking hell, the way the master – shit. He wouldn’t want me to tell. Each time he came back more exhausted and took a longer time to recover. He’s beginning to forget to eat, too. “

“ _Each time,”_ Finn repeats, and she can see he’s figured it out.

“Yeah. Our two species’ biology is not that compatible. If you want to help him you’d better act quick. I give him – oh, who knows. But something happened when you crashed on that moon. It made the master become more – I don’t know, possessive. Less careful. Unreasonable.”

Finn stands up and crashes his fist over the holoprojector. His grinning image wavers and fizzles out.

“Finn!” Organa says. She stands up and goes to hug him.

“You know what, Ma’am,” he says. “On that moon, I asked Poe to escape with me. I was sure Jess, Karé or Wexley would be ready to land down and fly us away. I know it means I’d have turned. Again, uh.”

“But why didn’t you do it!” yells Freia.

“He didn’t want to. He stayed to help you escape. Made a good Resistance soldier out of me in the process, General.”

Leia’s laugh is terribly sad. “By the Force, Poe. You don’t even remember who you are and you still manage to be your perfect, heroic, self-sacrificing, uh, self. And you, Finn. You’d have doomed us, probably. But I’d have understood.”

“We all share the guilt, don’t we?” asks Freia. “General Organa. Are you really going to try to ask for him on Usawa?”

“We are. We definitely are. Finn and I are going back. In five days.”

“Basically,” Kes says, “it amounts to trying to buy my son back with enough ships. Will it work?”

Probably not, Freia thinks. Their master was not rational when talking to Poe. He’d toy with the idea of making them pay, maybe let them believe…

“Tell me,” she says. “How did your Poe manage to stay alive for so long with such an underdeveloped sense of preservation?”

“Luck,” Finn says.

“Luck,” Organa says at the same time. “He’s always been so damn lucky. When you wished him ‘the Force be with you’, you ended up believing it really was.”

/

Now this is bad luck, he thinks. His Master has just announced he is to pilot in five hours and he’s not sure he can.

He doesn’t know how many days have passed since his master last raped him. It was before Freia’s escape, he remembers – but the days are melting into each other as he stays in the cockpit, tries to become as forgettable as possible, tries to recover.

He’s not getting better. He thinks he’s getting worse. He should eat. Did he already eat today? He can’t remember. He goes straight for the stack of high energy bars – the delicacies in the storage unit just turn his stomach now. There are too many bars, which makes him frown. If he makes an effort he thinks he can count the days since the last restocking, and he definitely should have eaten more of them.

He munches conscientiously on one. It takes a long time and his jaw, his teeth, hurt.

He initiates the usual checkup and goes to sleep while it runs. No alarms, only the beep at the end of the procedure, which wakes him up. Good. At least he slept for two hours. He remembers about the energy bar, goes to eat another one. Good.

His _head_ hurts. Not good.

Some time must have passed because his Master is in the cockpit.

“Ready to go, pilot? The handler uploaded the flight plan. It’s not on?”

“Uh. No, sorry, Master. Running checkup took a long time. I’ll open it now.”

“Slave. You don’t look good. You’re sure you’re ready to fly?”

“Of course, Master. I’m functional. I can pilot.” What else could he say? His master is stooping and making him look up so that he can see right into his eyes. He hopes he can’t see the dark and the shooting lights at the edge of his sight.

“Are you telling the truth? This is serious, slave. If you lie and I find out, you can’t even begin to imagine how painful the punishment will be.”

“My Master knows I don’t lie to him.” And, he thinks, you’ll find I’m lying when I’m unable to steer the shuttle, so we’ll all be dead anyway. There’s something there, something there about Finn but Poe can’t help the headache and the exhaustion. Death by shuttle is preferable to a long agony in the hands of his master. _I’m sorry, Finn_ , he tries to send with all the strength he’s got left. The Finn place in his mind stirs but he can’t concentrate.

“By the First Egg, it’s a damn shame that medic has disappeared. I’d have asked her. She seemed to be able to keep you in better shape, uh.”

“Yes, Master. I’ll pilot.”

“Well. Do so. Or fear the consequences.”

/

His vision is blurry and wavering. His fingers are finding the switches and buttons of the take-off sequence by instinct and he thinks he already piloted like that. A TIE, was it? Or another shuttle. No, a sim. It was all a sim, and there was Lyell observing him. Where’s Lyell? There’s someone he should fear more now, he thinks.

His headache comes in waves, nauseating, all-encompassing waves that have his hands leave the commands to clutch at his head. The heating engines shudder and an alarm blares. He puts his hands back where they should be – he hopes, he doesn’t really see them, or sees them flashing on and off, white hands on a dark console, dark hands on a white console, all stark too-luminous outlines until the darkness in the corner of his eyes creeps to the centre.

It’s time to pull the shuttle off the ground and his hands and feet still know enough to initiate the procedure, if probably a bit more steeply than usual. But at the precise moment of take-off the blinding lights shoot inside his eyes and the nausea hits again. He vomits on the console, coughs, folds over and vomits again. His head hits the yoke and the shuttle nose dives down, hits the ground.

He falls on the floor – where’s his harness? Did he forget to buckle up? – and vomits again.

“So you’re functional, uh? You can pilot, uh?” his master yells, slamming the communication door open.

He’s being picked up from the ground, feels his Master’s hands on his arms, big and scaly and slick with – blood, he thinks, the shuttle fall wasn’t gentle, his Master is hurt, hurt but not dead, he failed to kill him. He’s being shaken, not too nicely, and he whines.

“Oh, so you’re in pain! Open your eyes, slave, so that I can see your lies. So that you can see me. Open!”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. “I can’t see anyway.”

“By all the Dark in the Void! You’d have killed me! Assess yourself!”

Another wave of pain hits his head and he can’t answer for a while, can only groan and try to breathe through it.

“Assess yourself, I said!”

“Head hurts – please, don’t jolt me, please, head hurts, eyes hurt, everything hurts, please –”

“Blinding headache, uh? How long has it been going on, slave?”

“Just now, began just now, Master I promise –”

“You’re lying, slave!”

“Please, Master, I –” and after all, why lie? He’s dead anyway, isn’t he? “I always had them. Always knew. They come when I’m tired.”

“What? You – you piloted in – you _knew_? And never said? I trusted you, slave! I saw I could, in your eyes! You saved my life! You’d – you’d have broken the ship?”

Poe makes himself open his eyes. If he concentrates, he can see. He sees the swoosh, swoosh of the blood pulsing inside his eyes, but he also sees his master’s face, distorted by rage and covered in the thick golden blood of his species.

“I’d have. I hoped I’d lose control high enough, far enough that it’d kill us all.”

There might be admiration in his Master’s lower, calmer voice. “Dammit. Even to the end, you still think you can play a game with me.”

Poe smiles. “And I nearly won, Master.”

The blow to his solar plexus is so violent he hears something crack. He loses consciousness.

/

“We apologise for the inconvenience,” some smallish Usawan is saying. “His Lordship has been delayed. He can’t meet you here at the station as scheduled.”

Finn feels a pang of dread at that and when he tries to reach into the bond he feels – nothing, dammit, he feels nothing at first, and then the same all-encompassing pain that he’d felt that first time probing with Rey.

“Leia,” he whispers in her ear, “Poe’s got a problem, we’ve got to do something, quick!”

He probes again. The pain comes in waves, and inside the pain, defeat. _I’m sorry, Finn_ , comes an echo of Poe’s voice, loud and clear until everything fades except, again, the pain.

“We’ll join him on Mainworld, then,” Leia is saying.

“But, General, the shuttle is downworld with his Lordship!”

“We’ll use our own vessel. And now, please leave us so that we can undock as soon as possible. You’ll transmit the flightplan to my pilot, please.”

Finn isn’t sure he can walk.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” he tells Leia. “His head. He isn’t breathing right either.”

Leia touches his hand. “Let’s sit together. The ship can wait, Finn. Care to let me try to reach him with you?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, anything.”

Leia’s touch is no less powerful than Rey’s, he realises. But unschooled, unused to its own power. Warmer, also. But sad. She’s not guiding him or powering him, but a rush of – affection, security, strength, admiration, love, encouragement follows and envelopes him until he reaches Poe.

 _Mother_ , he thinks, which is curious since he’s got no memory of his. And _friend_. _Leader_.

Finn can’t make anything coherent out of what he senses in Poe. _Unconscious_ , whispers Leia’s mind. _Poe_ , Finn thinks, maybe says aloud. “Poe, wake up, hold on, don’t give up.”

 _Hold on_ , Leia’s mind whispers all around them, but it’s not words, it’s a thought, an emotion, strength given with a push forward.

“I love you,” says, thinks Finn. “Don’t give up. I’m here, so close to you.”

 _Love_ , Leia’s mind says. _Love makes it all better_ , and she _makes_ it better, touches Poe’s mind like a cool hand on a fevered brow, pulls at the pain and soothes it away for an instant, and Poe’s little moan echoes in Finn’s ears. _Leia?_ Poe sends, so faint. _Leia, who are you, Leia, it hurts, make it stop._

Finn tries to add his mind’s hands to Leia’s, feeling so clumsy and weak in the wake of her power, does it anyway, caressing, soothing, enveloping. _Finn_ , sends Poe, _good, you’re good, feels good. Finn, I know it’s not real, you’re not here, make me feel good, I’m going to die, make me forget_.

But Leia is all strength again. “Commander,” she says aloud, and Poe’s presence straightens and firms in the bond at the call. _Hold on. Wait for us. We’re coming. This is an order._

 _I can’t_ , comes Poe’s voice, clearer. _They’ll kill me. I’ll have to go. My own way_.

But the effort of _talking_ through the bond becomes too much and Poe’s presence fades in a haze of pain.

“Shit,” says Leia. “Did he faint again?”

“I think so. I can’t feel much right now.”

“I – I haven’t got the slightest idea whether we helped him. Did that reach him?”

“What? You didn’t sense? –”

“Not much. I tried to send all I could, but I’m not trained, Finn. I don’t know –”

“I felt him react. You were – you were wonderful, Leia. Thank you.”

“Finn. If I have to place all the Resistance at the feet of that High Lord, I swear I’ll do it to get Poe out. Force. That’s what his mind felt like, all this time?”

/

Poe wakes up to another source of pain. His head still throbs and pulses with an evil intensity but now it’s got competition in an acute pain radiating from the centre of his chest with each intake of breath. He looks down to his – naked? He’s naked, didn’t he wear a flightsuit before? – body, sees the enormous, fist-shaped bruise on his torso. Cracked, he thinks, another break, sternum?

Finn, he thinks. Finn was there. No, Finn wasn’t there, but he reached through their bond. And Leia, too. Who is Leia? He thinks he dreamed of her. In the dream, Finn made him feel loved. And Leia? Leia loved him too. _Mother,_ he thinks. She held him and made everything feel better. No, not mother, _Leader_. She ordered him to stand. No, to hold on. And gave him the strength to do so. She said to wait. But he can’t wait. Waiting here is dying.

Leia, he remembers. Leia Organa. Finn’s General. She must have been Poe’s, too, before.

It’s easier to think, he realises. The headache and the blinding lights are still there, but he can set them aside. He tries to pull himself to a sitting position, feels something on his wrists resist, twists on himself, out of balance. The pressure on his chest hurts like hell and makes him cough, which hurts even more. He grunts and goes back to flat on his back.

“You’re awake, slave.”

“My name is Poe,” he croaks. “Poe Dameron. Not slave.”

“Forgetting the ‘Master’ again, slave?”

“I’m going to die anyway. Ain’t I?”

“Hm. The compulsion to obedience and respect was never very deep, with you.” His master puts a finger on the centre of Poe’s chest, pushes down. Poe can’t help the yelp. “See, slave, there’s dying and then there’s _dying_. I might be kinder if you showed proper respect.”

“Would you really?”

“No.”

“And now we’re out of games to play.”

“But I can still make you show the appearance of respect. You’re going to kneel.”

“No.”

“Oh, but I’m not waiting for your obedience, Poe. Is that your name? I _like_ that you’re making it so clear you don’t want to obey. And that you can’t do a thing about it.”

His master – he’s not his master, not where it really counts, what’s his name? Fa’alua. Fa’alua takes a step back to pull on something and Poe feels his hands being pulled up behind him. Wires, again, one connecting both his wrists and sliding on some kind of pulley.  He hisses and swears at the sharp pain in his sternum – his ankles are tied too, apart and in front, so that he can’t bear the weight of his body on his legs.

His master – fuck him, Fa’alua laughs at that and stops pulling, letting Poe dangle in the worst position, his torso at a diagonal, head lolling back and shoulders straining. “I thought you said kneel,” Poe manages to say, because why not.

“As you wish,” says Fa’alua, but he waits for an eternity before moving again. Finally, something shifts in the pulley above and Poe’s weight is brought forward, his hands going higher until he does kneel, legs apart and hands above his head. It feels better – and the idea that he’s finding such a position comfortable even as it blocks his lungs from breathing makes him want to laugh.

Now he can have a look around. He realises he’s on a kind of dais set up in a large room. Naked, on display for whomever would come, but the room is empty except for the two of them and a guard at the door, basking in a ray of sun, his back to Poe.

“It is really strange,” says Fa’alua after a while, “how our bodies look nearly identical and are yet so different. You break so easily. It’s a pity. This is the last time we’ll be alone together, you know that? I’d have wished things to end differently, pet.”

“I’m not your pet.”

“No. No, you’re not. Not mine. You know you were calling the envoy right now, before properly waking up? He really did something to you, that one.”

Fa’alua kneels beside Poe, trailing his hands up and down Poe’s sides and bringing his head very close. Poe can feel his breath, always so cold, on his face. Then a hand goes up to hold his head in place and he grunts in alarm as he feels cold, dry, scaly-smooth lips on his own, then a finger in the corner of his mouth forcing it open and a tongue probing inside, Fa’alua’s mouth crushing his and pointy teeth pushing into his lips.

He’d have thought the tongue would be forked but it’s not, he thinks abstractly. Firmer, maybe pointier and longer than a Human’s, but not so different. The kiss is intrusive and rough and makes him taste blood but it’s not painful and after a while Fa’alua pulls out. Poe grimaces and tries to lick the taste off his mouth.

“Isn’t that what Humans do? What you did to _Finn_ with your mouth?”

“What I did with Finn,” growls Poe, feeling the anger rise. “What I did with my mouth, Fa’alua. With my whole body, really. I could tell you, and you probably wouldn’t like it. But you know what? Since you’ll make me pay anyway, I won’t tell. What happened between Finn and me is _ours_. I’m beyond obeying your orders, _Master_. You’ll have to imagine it.”

Fa’alua shouts something, obviously some annoyed curse, jolts Poe’s wrist wire hard and lets it go abruptly. It shakes Poe up and then makes him fall down hard, flat on his back, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

“You know,” says Fa’alua, looking down at him, “if you had remained my pet, I’d have made you love like to one of our women. An honour, really. You’d have forgotten yourself in it, begged and worshipped me.”

“I’d still have died,” rasps Poe, still trying not to cough and to find his breath.

“Of course you’d have died, but it’d have been a sweet death. Not so much, now, Poe who doesn’t want to be a slave. You’ll be a lesson instead. To other slaves. And a political gesture to some of my supporters. I’ll make it long, and slow, and painful. _Public_. You don’t want to be mine? You’ll be everyone’s. Everyone who wants a bit of you will come here and take it. The slaves, first. And don’t imagine they won’t feel like it. Knowing they’re not in your place will be enough for some of them to go wild.”

The darkness is back in Poe’s sight and he thinks it’s for the best as it saves him from having to watch his torturer and makes it easier to retreat into his own world. But Fa’alua yanks at his wire and the pain in his shoulders and chest provokes an adrenaline surge, jolts his eyes open and seeing.

“Then all the free men will take their turn, and all the lords after them,” Fa’alua goes on. “And you know what? I’ll make sure that it stops often enough that _you_ don’t get wild, that you still go down between the highs. I’ll make you eat or ask the medics for a drip, and you won’t die of that, even as they tear you open and break your bones. But you’ll wish you were. And when you’re broken, literally broken, and so full of them and so weak that you can’t even move, then _I’ll_ take you. Slowly. Often. Making sure that you regain enough of yourself in between the onslaught that you feel the pain and _beg_ me to _stop._ And I won’t, and then you’ll die of it, slowly, but you’ll know it.”

Poe closes his fists and feels the nails dig into his palms, a welcome, grounding kind of touch. _I’m not broken_ , he thinks _, right now I am not, I’m still alive, I could still escape_.

“You’re terrified,” says Fa’alua, bending over his face and looking into his eyes. “But you don’t look defeated. Why is that? Are you still hoping your envoy can save you? Hm. Poe Dameron, you said you’re called, and I’m sure TIE pilots don’t have names. Maybe I’ll look into that. Maybe I’ll make your agony long enough that your _friends_ can watch it? See how far they’ll agree to go for their damn treaty, huh. Let them believe they can save you. Yes. I’ll play the alien who can’t help what he is, but feels the call of the Light. They’ll love it, won’t they, Poe Dameron?”

This time, Poe manages to close his eyes and shut his ears. He thinks of pleasant things, faraway and innocent, Freia’s child, _tamales negras_ and his _abuelito_ ’s lullabies. He doesn’t hear Fa’alua leaving.

/

The guard lost his sun ray some time ago but still appears as bored as possible, having elected to watch the falling rain and the darkening sky instead of a prisoner who could never escape. Poe wonders how much time he’s still got and decides not to wait.

A good thing they tied his hands together and not apart, and that Fa’alua didn’t leave him dangling in the air. All things that would have made difficult, if not impossible, to reach for the remote control. He digs inside his cuff, wiggles his wrist a little until the small, flat remote in its protective wrap falls down on the dais. He takes it and presses the upper button.

Nothing.

It’s the wire control, he thinks. These wires aren’t like the ones in the ship. The control will still work on the cuffs. He presses the second button with trembling fingers.

With a tiny hiss and a click, the four cuffs open. He nearly faints from relief, his pulse so strong in his ears he can’t even hear the splattering rain on the roof. He looks at the guard. Thankfully, it seems the downpour did drown out the sound of the cuffs as the guard is still sitting with his back to Poe, the barrel of his blaster pointing up over one shoulder.

Usawans are stronger than Humans, even the small ones, as Poe is very much aware. But there’s only one door and only one thing to do.

He stands and climbs down the dais as silently as he can, walks to the guard and takes the blaster in one smooth move. The guard reacts too late, closing his hands on nothing and pivoting to take in the situation, a naked, battered, cuff-less, _armed_ prisoner in front of him.

Maybe Poe could only stun him, hit him with the blaster butt, or make him walk to the dais and cuff him here. But the truth is that he feels in control for the first time since he’s woken up without his name, and that he’s angry, angry to the point of dizziness and rage. He pulls the trigger, shoots at point-blank range into the guard’s head.

Now he should go to the spacefield, but a naked unshackled Human is sure to attract attention even in the dusk and the rain. He looks around for anything, a cupboard, some forgotten garments, his own flighsuit, but all he can see is the dead guard. Well. At least he’s not lord-sized, if still taller than Poe.

/

Everyone walks head down in the rain, escaped slaves trying to look inconspicuous as well as any other. Nobody looks at anybody else and nobody wonders at the lonely figure in a guard uniform climbing the ladder of a small derelict transport ship.

There are no alarms nor parking locks and the ship was refuelled.

He’s stealing a ship and he’s succeeding. He feels like it’s something he should have managed long ago. He doesn’t remember why.

He takes off and the com shouts at him, echoing painfully in his pounding head. He notices that his hands are trembling on the joystick – it feels good to have a joystick again in hand and not a yoke but it’s hard to concentrate on keeping the vector, and hard to focus enough to watch the data on the monitor.

High, higher and out of atmosphere. It’s so tempting to fly further away, to identify himself as Black Leader, to call for Blue Three and the others’ help. He nearly does. But he can’t trust the Resistance, not when they’ve got their treaty to fight for, not when they might take Fa’alua’s word at face value, not when his own pilots might be ordered to bring him back down.

So he does what he planned. Waits until he’s far enough, lost in the first asteroid belt so that they’ll look for him there long enough, curves down and flies back to Mainworld. He couldn’t have flown for that much longer anyway with his vision so blurry and the nausea coming back in full force. He’s thirsty and even if he’s not hungry he knows he hasn’t eaten in much too long. His chest aches and he knows he shouldn’t cough but can’t help it and has to fight to keep the ship steady when a fit takes him.

He still manages to spot those areas on the other side of the world, the ones he noticed when he first flew a freighter downworld but understood only when they were stranded on the forest moon. The mosaic of greens and blues looks glorious within the long shrouds of mist in the golden morning light. He glides down, squinting at the sun reflection in a lake, and nearly misses his window for straightening the ship’s course. He still lands there on the soft bank, close to the largest settlement he can identify.

He can’t move for the longest time, all the adrenaline gone from his body. He’s cold and he’s aching and he can’t stop the shaking, and he doesn’t even want to open his eyes, the light already blinding through his squeezed eyelids. It’s shock, he knows. Shock on top of that old chronic exhaustion, and his body finally giving up.

Someone is shouting outside and banging on the hull.

His fingers find the switch, pull. He hears the clang and the hiss of the opening hatch.

“Who are you?” asks a voice, very much like any of the Lords’. He makes himself look up and focus on the quite large, green-skinned, shimmering being in the doorway. The eyes are too human, of course. Light green with flecks of brown and a darker grey outer ring. The body doesn’t look female to his Human eyes – no breasts. But the belly is rounded and large, with hints of bumps that he thinks are eggs. He sighs, long and relieved.

“I’m a slave, my Lady,” he begins. “An escaped slave –” Then he straightens, grabs the armrest to make himself stand, wills the dizziness to abate. “My name is Poe. Poe Dameron. I’ve come to tell you how the Galaxy fares.”

“What’s a slave?” the woman asks.

/

Finn watches as the High Lord squeezes Leia’s hand and a few of the Lords around grind their teeth. He remembers being surprised at such a treatment the first time, remembers his reluctant admiration during the TIE attack and on the moon. That admiration is gone now, replaced by disgust and a terrible anguish at the idea of Poe’s fate.

“So,” says the High Lord, smiling to Leia. “How many ships are you going to allow me to ask for? I am, of course, going to offer you the smallest asteroid on the most remote and coldest area of the system for your base, so that we can work up from there.”

Leia remains stone-faced. “I’m afraid a new parameter will have to be included in the negotiations, High Lord Fa’alua. We –”

The High Lord is still smiling. “Oh, of course. The pilot. Poe Dameron, I think that’s his name?”

“You know his name?” Leia can’t help asking.

“Pilot told me. Quite recently, might be that he’d just remembered. Do you know that for the longest time I thought he’d been a First Order pilot? That’s how the slavers sold him to us. Of course, when I knew he had a name I had my aides do some digging.” He nods, smiles a little, looking duly impressed. “Commander Poe Dameron. Hero of the Resistance. No surprise he was so good! I must say it’s been an honour to have him as my pilot. And a tremendous luck – I’m sure Finn told you how many times he saved my life?”

“He did,” says Leia drily. “He told me everything.”

“I’m not surprised, he appears to be an excellent subordinate. Finn certainly acted quite – selflessly when we were stranded on Mti’ndizi moon. In the strictest obedience to your orders, I’m happy to add. Back to Commander Dameron, It must have been such a tragedy to have him missing for so long. You certainly _value_ him highly.”

“Now we get to the point. But first, where is he? We have reasons to think that he’s not in good shape. And you’re talking of him in past tense.”

“Ah. I’m afraid that it’s where the differences between our species are going to show. I hope we can get past them. Poe Dameron is still alive, of course. But, General Organa, he’s still my _slave_. And since he betrayed my trust, not my pilot anymore.”

“What happened? What did you do!”

“He always was a hard one to tame, your Commander. I should have guessed earlier. But it had its advantages. Anyway, he lied to me about his physical state and nearly killed me when he botched his take off. Worse, much worse, he admitted he’d known all along it could happen. Admitted, General, that he’d hoped his little – impairment would manifest itself in a situation where it’d kill me!”

The High Lord’s voice has been rising louder and louder with each word, ending in a shout. But Finn thinks he can sense the control behind it. It feels staged.

“My pilot is still enough of a slave to understand he has to pay. And he will. You wanted to know if he’s still alive? Here he is!”

Finn turns to the door, hoping he’ll see Poe appear, surprised and dismayed he can’t sense more through the bond. But what happens is a swoosh on his right as a large holoprojector comes to life. It’s Poe, lying on some floor, hands and feet bound, the feet apart and the hands together. He appears unconscious, or maybe delirious, limbs twitching and mouth trying to form words, and is even thinner than Finn remembers. He’s also naked and his body is a collection of bruises, old and new. The worst is on his chest, black and large and swollen.

From her place in the group of pilots who followed inside, Jess swears, a long string of obscure curses from her own world.

“General!” the High Lord shouts. “Keep your subordinates in check!”

“Oh,” Leia says softly. “But they’re not my subordinates. You see, they’re fleet, not ground troops. Poe’s pilots. And his friends. Jess, we’ll get him out.”

“Poe Dameron was your subordinate, General. Make that woman behave!”

“Lieutenant Pava,” Leia says. “This is a diplomatic occasion. Let’s keep calm.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jess says.

The holo is going on. Poe stirs and tries to move but falls back down. The feet of an unidentifiable lord come into the frame. Poe’s talking, even fleetingly smiling. Dammit, thinks Finn, stop that, Poe! Stop talking back! You’re only going to make things worse!

“As you can see, he’s alive,” the High Lord says as he shuts down the holo. “I think that’s enough.”

 _Poe,_ Finn thinks, trying to reach out with all his might. _We’re here. Where are you?_ But what he feels is strange – thin, as if Poe was further away, or very weak. And muddled, uncoherent, which means that Poe is unconscious again. The discrepancy was jarring while watching the holo, as if sight and bond didn’t match.

“Now, about these ships,” begins the High Lord, and Finn has to pry his mind away. They’re here to buy Poe back.

/

“Paau, what did you find there?”

“Not what, Efu, who, he’s a he – I think? I picked him up in that ship we saw landing.”

“He’s very small, even for a male, isn’t he? And his skin is pink and scaleless, as if he’d been burned. The ship was burning?”

“It wasn’t. I think he comes from far away, maybe beyond our sun. He called himself a – a what, a slave? He spoke of the Galaxy, Efu!”

“How exciting! But he’s a he, you say?”

“He’s wearing our men’s clothes, and his belly’s flat, so I thought –”

“Of course, yes, I agree, but if he’s a he, what’s if he’s dangerous? There’s a lot of blood on his jacket and shirt. Or what if he’s been caught in a fight? He’s terribly small, he couldn’t hold his own for long!”

“I think he fought, look at him. He was very weak in the ship and shook a lot when he tried to stand. And then he spoke and he collapsed. He’s unconscious, see? But that’s not his blood. His is strange. His skin broke at the wrists, his blood’s coming out all _red_.”

“What shall we do with him? Should we call a man to get him?”

“I don’t know. He said he escaped from something – maybe he needs protection? And he wants to tell us about the Galaxy. _Us_ , Efu! Not them. I can’t wait to hear his tales.”

“Paau, what’s a slave?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we could ask one of the eldest? Maybe Tafue? She’s always keeping things for herself in her tales, could have been one of the things?”

/

“A slave, he said he was?”

“Yes, Tafue. An escaped slave, he said. And then he gave another name. Poe Something.”

“Well, if he wakes up, use that other name. Do not call him slave.”

“So you know what a slave is? Is that something from our Grandmothers?”

“The Force between us and evil! Certainly not!”

“How do you know, then?”

“You know we’ve been reading, your aunts and I. Watching holos. Remembering our past. Maybe it’s time you youngsters do it, too. A slave is someone whose freedom was stolen, so that they can be owned like things.”

“But that’s not right? How can they agree?”

“They don’t, Efu. They don’t. They’re not given a choice. And so a man, a Human, comes to us wearing our men’s clothes, covered in our men’s blood, telling us he escaped that fate. I don’t like it at all. If he wakes up I think he’ll have a lot to tell us.”

“He said he came to tell us about the Galaxy!”

“Did he, now?”

“Tafue?”

“What, Paau?”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know. I think he killed someone, the one he stole these clothes from. An act of the Dark if there ever was one. But he doesn’t _feel_ Dark, I don’t think, I’m not sure – if only he had his eyes open. You saw his eyes, Paau, in the ship. What did you think?”

“His eyes were clouded, but – Light. I felt the Light. Tell me, aunt. Why were you saying _if_ he wakes up?”

“Slaves experience a lot of abuse, niece. This one looks – oh, I don’t want to say. I’m going to try to make him drink, something with enough calories and that I hope won’t be toxic for Humans. I haven’t got the slightest idea if they can eat the same things as us!”

“Look, he’s trying to talk!”

“He’s delirious. I think he’s calling a name.”

“I’m going to Savili, I’ll ask her what she’s got on Humans in the databank, shall I?”

/

“Poe?”

“Savili. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. And yourself? Slept well?”

“I can’t believe it, wonderfully. It’s the trees, they’re soothing. You know that we had one very similar at home? My _abuelito_ told me they were very rare. And now there’s a whole forest of them!”

“I’m glad you like them. Paau tells me you want to go?”

“We should all go.”

“Poe, it’s great that you feel better, but it’s been only three days. You wobble when you walk, you don’t eat if we don’t tell you to and don’t think I don’t see you always rubbing and pushing at your eyes. You’re in no shape to travel! And we don’t have anything we dare to give you to make it better. Actually, I don’t like that we still haven’t found anything for that cough.”

“I’m well enough. I thought every one of you agreed that it’s time?”

“ _It’s time_ doesn’t mean in the next two days, you know.”

“I think it does. Has to. Savili, it’s – I’m so happy, relieved, thankful that you want to free the slaves, but – ”

“But what? If we tell our men that it’s time for us to be in the world, they’ll bow to us. It’s always been so, we’re the guardians of the Eggs, you know. I trust Alua.”

“Alua. _Fa_ ’alua?”

“Ha. With his honorific, Fa’alua, yes. They love these little syllables and their little hierarchies, our men. Alua. He’s a good husband. He’s clever. He listens – oh, Poe. By the Egg. Poe? The Force between us and evil, I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay. I’m okay, Savili. You know it’s something I’ll never understand, how you can – with your men – but I trust _you._ It’s okay. The thing is – peace, you say. You want peace. Well, I don’t remember much but what I know is that peace is a damn dangerous thing in that Galaxy right now. You’ll need protection. Friends. The Resistance is over there with your men, right now, selling their soul for a treaty. Don’t wait until they’re gone. I think they’ll be the best you can hope for.”

“And we’re the best for them, probably. They’re your friends, Poe Dameron?”

“I think they’d be, if I remembered. I was one of them. I told you there’s still one who’s my friend, or - or much more.”

“Poe. I believe you, and many of us want to leave at once anyway. But I doubt you’re in a shape to travel. We only have surface vehicles, which means two days being jolted around, and in your case, with a cracked sternum.”

“Why couldn’t we use the ship? One half hour of smooth flying.”

“Nobody knows how to pilot here.”

“ _I_ know.”

“Are you well enough?”

“Everybody keeps asking me that. I am, for a half-hour atmospheric flight I really am. Promise.”

“Poe Dameron?”

“Yes, Paau?”

“Would you teach me how to pilot?”

“Oh. Wow. Well, half an hour is a little short, you know. But I can show you a thing or two. There’s a co-pilot seat.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings, power shifts and Force trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betaed by the ever amazing Stiletto Ren, who's the best at finding the hidden meaning in my badly translated words and garbled sentences.

“He’s leading us in circles,” Karé whispers.

“I believe so, yes,” Leia mutters. “Two days and he hasn’t made any concessions. He’s just showing us snippets of those horrible Poe holovids and waiting to see how much we’re willing to pay for him.”

“But we have to buy him back, Ma’am! We can’t abandon him!”

Leia remains silent and Finn feels his heart sink.

“About these videos,” he whispers.

“ – Shit,” interrupts Karé. “He’s going to show us another one. By the Force I hate that.”

They’ve been subjected to so many variations of Poe on that dais. Short vids, not long enough to get a real sense of what’s going on. Poe on his back, talking. Poe being pulled up by his hands and dangled at a forty-five degree angle, his face a mask of pain. Poe falling down hard. A very short sequence of a fully exposed Poe, kneeling legs apart and looking – relieved? He’s kneeling again now as the same Lord as before comes into the frame, his back to the recorder. He’s _kissing_ Poe.

“Stop that!” snaps Karé. “Stop! How long has it been going? Untie him! At least, give him something to drink!”

“No,” growls Finn, pulling himself from his chair and going to stand in front of the High Lord. “It’s not what it looks like. This is not a live broadcast. You’re misleading us, your Lordship.”

“ _What?_ ” says Leia.

“They’re feeding us a loop, General. Edited bits of the same scene. Oh, they did _that_ to Poe, no doubt about it. But not right now. I can feel it.”

“You’ve killed him!” yells Karé. “What you did after that fucking vid killed him! You’re trying to make us pay for a dead man!”

Leia has stood up as well and looks very pale. “You’d better tell us the truth now, High Lord Fa’alua. Or these negotiations are over. We won’t take the death of Commander Dameron lightly.”

“No,” Finn begins to say. No, he thinks. Poe’s not dead. You’re playing into the High Lord’s hands. He had taken a blow but you’re helping him recover.

“No?” the High Lord smirks. “Does the envoy agree with me? Against his General’s decisions? You surprise me, Finn. You can feel something of Dameron’s situation, you say? What kind of connection do you have with him?”

“You’d better tell us everything about his _situation_ , Fa’alua,” says Leia. “I repeat, there are limits on what we’re prepared to accept.”

“You’d walk out, General? And then what? Wage a war upon us? We all know we’re not a starfaring species, but you’ve seen that our slaves obey us. Would you shoot them down? There might be others like Poe Dameron among them. And you’d have to land, General. You’d better believe we can defend ourselves.”

“The First Order might be a viable option after all, Fa’alua your Lordship,” says Fa’itaaha from his place at Fa’alua’s right hand.

“It might.”

“If you killed him –” Karé begins again, just when Iolo stands to shout, “The First Order! Now you’re showing your true colours!”

Jess is standing up as well, but it’s to put her hand on Karé’s shoulder. “Calm down, Karé. Look at Finn. Poe’s not dead, is he, Finn?”

“He’s not, I can feel – ” Finn tries to say, but it looks like every Resistance member is standing and shouting at the same time, and he’s taking in a big breath to shout above the noise when the High Lord bursts into laughter.

“Look at them,” he says, snorting. “Hear them. General Organa, is that what you call a diplomatic mission? Try at least to keep some semblance of order among your own, will you?”

“Calm down, everyone,” Leia says, not even very loud. “Sit. Fa’alua, the Resistance pilots aren’t known for their respect for authority, as you might have discovered when dealing with Poe. But as you can see, they still listen. And now, I respectfully suggest you tell us the whole truth.”

Leia gets served a sample of the High Lord’s toothy smile, the one that makes him look much less human. “Ah. Indeed. Well, now that everyone is seated again, I invite you to watch the holovid in its entirety, no edits, no cuts. As the astute Finn guessed, it’s not a direct feed – and the handler who failed to watch it until the end when it was live got his head served on a platter, quite literally.”

They get to the point of the kiss, not without a few muttered curses, some of them from Leia. Then Poe looks like he’s spitting, and answers something. He smirks again and Finn closes his eyes in anticipation of the punishment to come – which is the violent jerking of his bonds and the ensuing fall that they already watched. Poe manages to talk again after that, but his features twist slowly as he looks like he’s trying very hard not to let some expression show – it’s terror, Finn realises. And then the terror recedes and Poe’s face becomes bland, eyes closed and mouth slowly going slack.

Nothing much happens after that for a very long while, even on fast forward. Poe’s not really asleep, his frame wracked by coughing fits at short intervals, but he does look like he’s resting. Then he takes in a large breath, moves his wrists and searches inside a handcuff, retrieves a small thin black device on the floor and presses on it. And again. His cuffs open. He sits up, then stands and leaves. The holo goes on, showing only the discarded cuffs. Finn smiles.

“By the Force!” Jess yells. “He escaped! We were all fearing for his life and that sweet fucker escaped!”

“Will you shut up, woman?” the High Lord growls. He stops, sighs, then looks straight into Leia’s eyes. “I hoped we’d get him back before you’d realise, but no such luck. He escaped, yes. Killed the guard with his own blaster and stole a ship. Ship was an insystem transport with no hyperdrive so we know he’s in the system. Inner asteroid belt, probably.”

Jess swears at that, half-rises and looks at the door. The High Lord smiles and gestures for her to stay down.

“Any pilot walking out now gets shot on the spot, woman. Funny, isn’t it, how your man doesn’t seem to be able to come up with original strategies? A bad case of hero worship, do you think? I’m told he hid plans in an astromech like you did, General, and now he hides himself in an asteroid field. Isn’t that one of your late husband’s feats? And now, hear me. If you want to avoid that war with us, or worse, another battle with the First Order, you’ll do what I demand. You’ll send your pilots to find him – you’d have done it anyway, but you’ll get him back to _me_. As my slave. Cuffed. And then we can talk.”

Shit, Finn thinks. Shit. Poe called it, didn’t he? And now we came at a standstill.

“No way I’m doing that!” yells Wexley who, right until now, had seemed like the lone sane man in the bunch, content with just listening. “I’m not bringing him here to be tortured again!”

“If you don’t find him he’ll die,” the High Lord says, smiling. “Oxygen reserves aren’t that big in such ships. Nor are the fuel tanks.”

“General,” says Iolo. “Maybe getting him back here could be a start. We’ll know where he is this time. No holovids.”

“Can you guarantee that he’ll be treated well, Fa’alua?” asks Leia.

“What? He’s my _slave_ , General. A slave who admitted he wanted to kill me and who killed a guard. The only thing I can guarantee is that we’ll keep him alive for you. Whether you get him back and in what shape depends solely on how fast we draft that treaty.”

Leia remains silent for a long while after that. Her eyes are glinting as she finally answers. “On these terms – no. We won’t track him for you. He may die up there, or maybe he’ll be resourceful enough to find a way out. But death in space always was a risk of his job, and I think he’d prefer it to whatever punishment you prepared for him here.” She stands up again. “Let’s go back to where we were in the beginning, High Lord Fa’alua. In the interest of the whole Galaxy, I’m prepared to forget this. Will you agree to negotiate without Poe Dameron factoring in? I urge you to think of the future of your own species, your Lordship. Of the balance between Light and Dark.”

“You’d kill your own man, you’d leave him to die alone in space?”

“I’d never sell him as a slave for a treaty!”

“Fa’alua your Lordship,” says Fa’itaaha. “They’re not worth it. War is preferable.”

There’s a sound coming from behind the doors, many voices talking and repeating Fa’itaaha’s last words. “War?” they’re saying. “War? Are they there already? Should we come in?”

“I’m coming in anyway,” says another voice. Human.

“Poe,” Leia says breathlessly, sitting down.

“Leia?” Poe says, standing in the doorframe. For half a second he looks lost inside himself, searching for memories that keep escaping.

Then he looks up, sees Finn, and Finn can’t restraint himself any longer. He lunges forward and takes Poe in a hug that soon becomes a kiss.

It lasts long enough for some catcalls, coming from the pilots’ row. Then Finn breaks the kiss. “You made it,” he says. “You used the remote. Oh Force, Poe. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Finn,” Poe can’t stop repeating, his hands on Finn’s face. “Finn. I love you. Oh, Finn.”

“Love you too.”

“Is that close enough to how you dreamed the moment, finally? We’re kissing and declaring our love.”

“Now we just have to fight a few green-skinned monsters and go home.”

“Speaking of that,” Poe begins, but his voice is becoming hoarse and he stops to cough.

“Give me the slave, Finn,” calls the High Lord, pointing a blaster at them. “Or the negotiation ends here.”

“Does it look like I will?” asks Finn, positioning himself in front of Poe and putting a hand on his blaster.

“Then it’s war,” the High Lord says as Karé, Iolo and Wexley stand to cover Leia and get their blasters out. Jess runs to Poe and Finn’s side.

“I wouldn’t say that if I were you, Alua,” says Poe, smiling – smiling! – as he steps aside to let the women behind him come in.

Women, yes, Finn is sure of it. Taller than the men on average, their bellies round, wearing unbelted loose garments without any weapon in sight. He feels his own smile blossom up and gestures reassuringly to Leia who looks flabbergasted.

“ _Fa_ ’alua, pilot,” says the High Lord.

“Soon to be Alua, as I understand it,” says Poe.

“Fuck you, pilot.”

Poe pales and squares his jaw. He straightens but Finn feels him shake. “Never again, thank the Force,” Poe rasps. “Oh Force, never again.” He’s swaying and Finn has to help him sit down.

“What did you do?” whispers Finn as he’s leaning over Poe.

“Brought my _master_ his worst nightmare,” Poe whispers back. “You know the one.” He coughs, winces and goes on. “Tell you the truth, I think they’d come even without me. But maybe not in time.”

“You surprise me, my husband,” an imposing woman is saying. “I trusted you to lean towards the subtler solutions. War? And what’s this about a _slave_?”

“Savili,” whispers Poe. “She’s lovely.”

“Uh. Lovely?” Finn eyes the impressive bulk, square shoulders and short, feathery hair. “If you say so.”

“Si’Savili my Lady,” Fa’alua begins to answer.

“Oh, let’s agree to stop here with the honorifics, Alua. You know they’re going to be out of fashion very soon.”

“As you wish, Savili,” says Fa’alua – Alua? – and he stops there.

“Are you going to let them in like that?” growls Fa’itaaha. “No resistance as they overturn us all?”

The High Lord straightens and puts a hand on his scimitar hilt. “I can try, Fa’itaaha,” he says. “Maybe I can make you listen to reason, Savili my Lady.”

“I’m listening, Alua.”

“My Lady. Look around you. I said war, yes, but the whole Galaxy is preparing for it. These Resistance people as much as all others. They’re soldiers! Your protégé here was a soldier. They’ve killed people! The sad fact is that we have to, all of us. You guard the Light and the Eggs, my lady, but we men stand at the door, warding off the darkness with our blades and blasters.” He stops, turns to Leia with a sad smile. “Look at them, at the Resistance. They’re begging us because we’re their last chance, but I’m thinking now that they’re not enough. They’ll only call the wrath of others upon our head! Let’s fight and force them out of here, and remain free. Or let’s side with the most powerful, so that our Eggs can hatch for a new cycle. Soon, your time with come, when your warriors will have brought peace. But not now!”

“Our warriors, Alua, or the slaves that are forced to stand in front of them?”

“You didn’t believe what that one told you, did you?” says Fa- not Fa’- Alua, but his hand is gripping the scimitar hilt a little too strongly. “His eyes are clouded. It’s impossible to know if he’s telling the truth, I know that for a fact.”

“Not impossible, husband. Difficult, yes, because on some level he’s aware of what our eyes see. But even if he were totally unreadable, his body speaks for him! How far to the Dark did you fall, Alua, to toy with a sentient being like that?”

“And now that’s enough,” says another woman.

“Tafue,” whispers Poe. “She’s very wise.”

“Uh, if you say so,” says Finn, looking at the gaudy, unpractical clothes and the maimed right hand.

“We won’t authorise slaves under the rule of the Usawani,” Tafue bellows. “And the debt we have to the Humans who suffered, were maimed and died under the hands of our men is so large it shall never be paid in full.”

“The Galaxy at large may be preparing for war,” says Savili. “But it only makes it more important that at least a small part of it remains at peace.”

“And so we’re telling you, men of the Usawan, that the time of peace begins now in Usawa,” says Savili.

“It’s madness,” Fa’itaaha says.

“But it’s what we’re choosing,” Tafue says.

“The Resistance will help you,” Leia says, standing and smiling.

“Poe told us as much. But we aren’t without defences – and even though Poe has probably guessed more and may tell you about them, they shall remain hidden for now.”

Alua stirs and Finn notices how all the Usawan men in the room follow his moves.

“If that’s your will, then, my Ladies. We’ll keep our hand weapons with us, as is the tradition, and leave you to deal with the rest. I remain at your disposition, should you need any details on the situation you’re left with, Savili.”

All the men rise up as the former High Lord turns to the door.

“No,” says Savili. “Wait. You’ve been a good High Lord, Alua. You listened to us, I think you genuinely tried to find some kind of balance. You – you didn’t give in to the First Order, not when it would have been more advantageous for you, at least not before – before that madness took you, with – with Poe.”

Poe’s been sitting in silence for a while, watching the women talk and trying not to let his features betray the intensity of his headache. He’s doing a good job of it, but Finn has been sensing it spill through the bond. Poe tenses at Savili’s words and looks worriedly up at Alua.

“With another upbringing, or other counsellors around you, who knows – you could have done great things,” Savili goes on. “And committed fewer atrocities.”

“And it’s been so difficult for us, even outlandish, to open our eyes to the Galaxy after so long,” adds a new woman. “So many things to understand. So many machines to learn to operate. Politics we know nothing about.”

“Paau,” whispers Poe. “She’s a young one.”

“Really?” says Finn, reconsidering his theory of the largest, the oldest.

“She’s also a natural at piloting. I can’t wait to see what she does with the shuttle.”

“Oh?”

“It was a mistake, the way we thought Balance could be attained only through the wild swing of polar opposites,” Tafue says. “It makes us weaker, and it tears us apart.”

“So,” says Savili. “We’re decreeing peace, and we’re coming back into the Galaxy. But we’re not exiling the men to the villages. Those who can live under our rules, who can agree to forgo their weapons, yes, Alua, even the hand ones, who can agree to learn the tasks that were imparted to the slaves as well as to the Lords, those who can learn that talking is better than fighting, can stay with us..”

“Fuck,” says Poe. When Finn passes an arm over his shoulder he feels him shake. Poe puts his hand on Finn’s thigh.

“Peace,” spits Fa’itaaha, scornful. “You’ll be happy that there are still some men able to hold a weapon when the First Order comes knocking.”

He stands up and leaves, hand on the hilt of his blade. More than half of the men follow him.

Alua looks at his receding back, then at Savili. Then at Poe, who clenches his jaw but holds his gaze. Then the former High Lord unsheathes his scimitar, which makes Karé swear in the background, and lets it clang down on the ground. His blaster follows, as well as a smaller knife he retrieves from his boot.

“I won’t pretend it’s going to be easy, Savili,” he says. “But I’m willing to learn.”

Poe’s shaking more than ever. “Do you want him,” asks Finn, not too low. “Do you want him on trial? We could ask for this.”

“Then all the men of this world would have to be tried,” answers Poe.

“Would you ask it of us,” says Tafue, “in payment of our debt?”

Poe’s laugh is hollow. “Don’t put that responsibility on my shoulders,” he says. “Not now. Not when all I want is revenge, not justice. No, Tafue. I’m leaving this in your hands. You want to start anew. Then do. That’s why I went to find you.”

Finn hears a stirring behind him, then the sound of Leia’s steps as she comes to stand next to Poe. It’s obvious, to Finn at least, that she wants to hug him, and equally obvious that she doesn’t dare, confronted with the blankness of Poe’s stare.

“Poe,” she says finally. “This is why I dared to rely so much on you before. You don’t remember, but – but you haven’t changed at all, my friend.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Tafue says. “He is indeed a good one, your Poe.”

“Tafue,” says Leia. “We were here to build a treaty with your men. Do you think we could arrive at an agreement together now? It’s true that your world has become tremendously important for us as well as for the First Order. You’re our last hope to keep our fuel supply routes open as well as our access to more than one quarter of the Galaxy.”

“And we’d need you anyway to protect us against the First Order, as we understand it,” says Savili. “I think we understand each other.”

“I think so,” says Leia. “Your husband wanted us to give him warships in exchange for access to your system, basically. But I’m guessing you wouldn’t touch Starfighters.”

“We wouldn’t, you’re right. And very few of our men, if any, know how to pilot. They seem to have heavily relied on slaves for the insystem traffic.”

“It’s going to draw heavily on our resources,” says Leia. “Squadrons to patrol your space, freighters, transports and shuttles. But your wolrd is important enough that we’ll have to do it.”

“No,” says Alua suddenly. “Savili, don’t agree to that. Alien ships to transport our ore? To dictate what and when they agree to move? Without any other option for us? You’d be throwing our independence and wealth through the window. Keep the slaves in the ships.”

“What else can we do?” asks Tafue. “Pay the slaves? Beg them to stay, on our knees? I’m betting very few would agree, after what they endured at your hands.”

“He’s right,” says Poe abruptly, which causes all present to start and turn towards him. Then he opens his mouth to explain, coughs, tries to sit up and coughs again. It goes for much too long, until Finn manages to find a glass of water and hands it to him.

“What,” says Finn. “You’re agreeing with _Alua_? _You_ think that slave system could work?”

“No,” says Poe, his voice hoarse and rather faint. “But I agree with him that the civilian trade should remain in the hands of the Usawan.” He coughs again, a hand pressed against his sternum. Finn realises that his cheeks are too red and his eyes glassy.

“Shit, Poe. You’re running a fever.”

“Yeah. Gonna try to spit it all out before I lose my voice entirely or faint again, uh? Savili. If you let the Resistance deal with all the traffic, you lose your ability to dictate prices or decide what exactly you want to sell. Even if they come here with the best intentions, it can’t be good in the long term. Ask for instructors instead. Teach your women to fly. Your men, too, if you think they’re reliable enough.”

“Listen to the slave,” Alua says. “He’s a clever one, I’ve always known it.”

“You motherfucker,” Jess hisses in the background.

“He’s got no weapon, stop that!” Leia says and Finn realises he’s half unsheathed his blaster.

“His name is Poe Dameron. Commander Dameron, I think you’d better call him,” Finn says.

“Sorry,” Alua says. “It’s – not easy, I told you.”

“You’d better learn faster, then,” Savili says. “Thank you for your help, Poe. General Organa, would that work? Would you have instructors to spare? I’m thinking that after a while we could alleviate the burden we’ve put on your shoulders. Send you pilots – not for your Starfighters or military transports, but I’m guessing you use as many freighters and shuttles as anyone else, and I know several young women who would be thrilled.”

Leia is nodding and smiling wider and wider and Finn thinks the treaty is going to get signed in record time.

“Setting a logistics base in your system would help greatly as well,” Leia says.

“Of course,” says Tafue. “I’d appreciate if it weren’t situated on Mainworld, so that – well, so that the targets remain separate, but we have very hospitable moons around Usawa VI. I think Finn visited one of them.”

“And,” adds Savili, “now that I think of it, maybe some of our men will want to go out, too. And _they_ could man your Starfighters, if you agree to it. _On one condition_ ,” she adds at the commotion it provokes among the male Usawans. “Condition is that you don’t bring any conflict, however righteous, home with you. This place will remain a planet of peace. And if anyone, anyone, even the highest and most revered among the lords decides to cross the divide and go to the First Order, let it be known that he’ll be severed from the Eggs forever.”

A chair falls as someone hastily stands up.

“I’m not taking any male of this species in my squadron,” Karé says.

“And I’m not piloting in the same squadron as one,” Jess says. “Although I’d happily teach any of their females to pilot.”

“I would take them, I think,” Iolo says, at the same time as Karé yells, “What?”

“They can’t all be torturers and cold-blooded killers,” Iolo says. “If a Usawan man can find a slave, a _male_ slave that vouches for him, I’ll take him.”

“Savili,” Alua says. “I’d like to try.”

“And you don’t know when to shut up, do you,” Finn can’t help saying.

“No,” smiles Alua – dammit, but he really doesn’t know when to stop. “I think someone else in this room can tell you how difficult it is, refraining from voicing your thoughts when you’re not used to it. Savili, I’m already a good ship gunner, Finn can vouch for that, I think I could be a decent pilot, and I have a score to settle with the First Order. I think – I think it would be easier for me to be away for a while.”

What he does next has Finn so completely shocked he can’t move or even talk. Slowly, purposefully, Alua kneels in front of Poe, pushes his discarded blade in front of him and extends his neck.

“Pilot,” he says. “Will you vouch for me? I know what I did. I tortured you, raped you. I’d have killed you in the end. But – but I also admired you. I listened to you. Gave you more power than any slave ever had, trusted you more than my lords. Gave you that shuttle – yes, it was yours, for as long as you could pilot it. And – and in the beginning, I tried – I really tried to rein in my instincts. To keep you whole for the longest time. Don’t you see, pilot?”

Poe has stood up. The blade is in his hand, although he looks like he doesn’t even realise it, the tip trailing on the ground. He’s swaying slightly.

“You –” he says, sounding strangled. “You don’t get to call me that. Pilot. My name is Poe Dameron. You –”

“Commander Dameron,” says Alua. “I’m begging you –”

Poe utters a small sound, very much like a sob, or an aborted heave. He looks down at Alua’s neck, at his own hand which had been slowly raising the blade. Horror appears on his face. The scimitar clatters down.

“Fucking hell,” he whispers, his voice too hoarse for more. “Stand up, Alua. Or don’t. Sit, kneel, as you want, I’m not your master. Call me whatever you want, anything except slave or, or pet, just don’t expect me to answer. I’m tired of our games, I still can’t figure out if you believe what you say.”

He steps back and sits down heavily near Finn, eyeing the scimitar on the ground. “You know what,” he goes on. “If I had raised that blade all the way up I’d have passed it through your neck. I won’t vouch for you. The best I can do is leave this system and try to forget – fuck, as if I – at least, try not to let those memories become the whole of me. You won’t pilot a Starfighter, Alua. I don’t think anyone in the Resistance would let you. Nor a shuttle, or a transport, anything with sentient beings on board. But if you really want to pilot, learn to pilot a freighter, there won’t be many volunteers. It’s a thankless job in these parts. Tedious, exhausting, dangerous. You can ask the slaves how they did it.”

The next coughing fit really wrecks him. He folds over on the chair, clutching his chest as the cough goes on and on and doesn’t stop. It’s hard to say where the coughing sounds end and the pained whimpers begin.

“His sternum is cracked,” says the youngest, Paau.

“I don’t like that cough,” Leia says. “Is there some kind of medbay which would know how to treat him?”

“Yes,” Alua says, slowly getting back on his feet. “The slave medcentre is equipped to treat humans.”

“No,” Poe croaks. “I don’t want to go there. Please. Finn, take me away.”

“I came in with my recon ship,” Wexley says. “It can easily hold three. Come on, Poe, I’ll fly you back to the Resistance medbay.”

Alua stands in their way as Finn and Wexley, supporting a wobbling Poe on each side, make their way to the door.

“I’m sorry,” says Alua.

“I don’t care,” answers Poe.

/

“Are you going to visit him now that Kalonia let him wake up?” Finn asks as Leia finally shuts off the holomap. The patrols around the Usawan system are set up and the recons don’t show any particular First Order activity around. It’s reassuring and upsetting at the same time, that such an open Resistance move in the sector didn’t lead to more attention from their enemy.

“Has he been asking after me?” answers Leia.

“He hasn’t asked after anyone from the Resistance, not even BB-8. Though I think he retained some memories and was happy to see him at least.”

“He’s been in contact with Kes and Freia? They told me he’d requested a holocall.”

“He has.”

“It’s good that he has people to go to. And that includes you, Finn. How is he?”

“Pneumonia on top of irritated lungs from the toxic smoke in the cockpit. And a damaged throat from what that fucker did to him. Bruises, cracked sternum. But now that he’s in Kalonia’s hands he’s getting better. The fever’s nearly gone.”

“And the rest?”

“Leia. Go see him. I know it’s not easy but do it, uh? I can come with you if you wish.”

She smiles a little. “Now that would be cowardly. I have to debrief him anyway. But the things I ordered – I’ll understand if he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me afterwards.”

“Leia. You kept the resources of the Resistance focused on finding him for much longer than was advisable. And in the end you refused to sacrifice him for the treaty. He knows that. Go see him.”

/

Leia looks through the glass of the intensive care unit at that gaunt, scarred man with Poe’s features under shorn hair. He doesn’t seem to see her. He doesn’t seem to see much at all, just stares blankly at the wall in front of him. Sometimes his eyes drift to the cubicle next to him where one of Finn’s kids is lying. Finn’s kids often end up in the medbay.

She wants so much to hug him, soothe him, make it better. It can’t be her place anymore.

“Poe,” she says, coming in.

“Leia.”

She can’t help the surge of hope. “You remember?” she asks. “You already called me Leia when you saw me with the lords.”

He looks up. He doesn’t smile. He’d have smiled before, she thinks.

 _She_ tries a smile by way of apology. “And I’m sorry. I’m guessing you’re going to be very tired of this question very soon.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Dr Kalonia says I should recover my memories. There was nothing physical, just a very strong Force compelling that I did to myself.”

And thank the Force you did, Leia thinks but doesn’t say. Poe knows, or rather knew too much to have his mind searched by Kylo Ren again.

But how could she thank him for that when it cost him so much?

“Right now,” Poe goes on, “there are some memories coming up. Longer, more coherent ones from Yavin. Bits and pieces from later. To answer your question, I knew your name when I saw you. It came with memories of – admiration, friendship, I think. Trust. Loyalty. That’s all. I pieced the rest together from what Finn told me.”

She nods, doing all she can to set the grief aside. This is what she had. Poe’s friendship and loyalty. And look what she did with it.

“I’m here to ask you –” she begins.

“– you’re here to debrief me,” he says. “You’re grieving and you’re feeling guilty but you won’t let it come before the needs of the Resistance. You’re an admirable leader, Leia Organa.”

Was he always so direct? Yes, she decides. Authority never cowed him. But maybe real affection, which she’s not sure she still deserves, warded her from his most acerbic replies. In any case he’d have sugar-coated it with charm before. Not so now. Such a handsome man, pretty, she’s even heard, and a slave – you’d learn very fast not to be charming. She shudders, remembering her own much shorter, much less painful, but still mind-scarring time as a slave.

“I’m here for a lot of things,” she says. “Friendship is one of them, though it’s up to you whether you still want it. But debriefing, yes, that too.”

“Okay,” he says and she waits for more but nothing comes.

“Do you want to walk out of here? To somewhere less – medical?” she finally says, the beeps and lights and constant presence of the medics bearing on her nerves. “Are you allowed?”

“Finn and I went for a walk this morning. Wherever my drip goes, I can go,” he says, smirking. “Unless I’m alone. They don’t like to see me alone.”

She takes back what she thought. The charm is still there, in a slightly broken way – she can see the hole in his upper jaw, where he lost a molar – but she’d swear he’s not aware of it.

“Well,” she says. “It’s sunny outside. Let’s go sit on a bench? It’s not too far.”

“Okay,” he repeats.

/

Poe spreads out on the bench, basking in the sun, his shoulders finally sagging and his face looking less tense. Leia makes a note to see about his sleeping arrangements. With all the sensors and drip tubes and wires, the medbay probably feels too much like a prison.

“Would you like to go back to your own quarters, I mean to settle back there? You used to bunk with Finn, I know for a fact he’s kept all your things as they were.”

“Yes,” he says, smiling groggily to the sun. “I’d like that. If Finn –”

“What do you think?” she says, smirking.

“Yes.”

It used to be easy, holding a conversation with Poe. Now it isn’t.

“So. Your memories are coming back. No aftereffects from that?” she says, touching her own scalp.

“There are,” he answers, voice gone flat. It’s still hoarser than it used to be, she notices. “Headaches. They aren’t going to leave by themselves. I’ll be barred from flying, except with a seasoned co-pilot. Too much of a liability.”

That’s a catastrophe. For the Resistance. For him.

“There’s neurological damage? Does Kalonia say it’s operable?”

“Seems it is, by a specialist, she says it’s doable here with a reasonable chance of success. But not while I’m in this state. I need to put on weight, go on with physical therapy for – shit, what Alua did to me, and they want to treat all the other things, the bones fractures that knitted all wonky, like this one,” he says, showing a cast on his wrist. “It’s going to take months.”

It doesn’t look like he’s enjoying the sun anymore and she wants to hug him, more than ever. Doesn’t dare to do it with her arms, but maybe tries with her mind and the Force, envelopes him in warmth and comfort.

“Thank you,” he says.

Leia is raking her mind for something else to say when Poe talks again. “How are the patrols going in the Usawa system?” he asks.

“Nicely. The First Order hasn’t reacted yet, which is strange.”

“Yeah. They’re using the Force down there. To hide.”

Now that’s something new. “What? Force users? In Usawa? But they didn’t tell us! Poe, that’s tremendous news, I’ve got to tell Luke!”

“They wanted me to tell you, remember? Only, not in public. Leia, there was a tree in our backyard in Yavin, a Force tree. Well, they’ve got whole forests of them on Usawa. The women are tending them.”

“But I didn’t feel it!”

“The men’s places, the cities, the astroport, they’re like warts on that world, dark, dull stains on a shimmering skin. Maybe some of their purpose is to hide the feeling of the trees? But I think the men use some bastardised version of the Force tricks their woman can do – there never was someone harder to lie to than Alua –”

“He was incensed that you had managed it,” smiles Leia. “Luke’s training?”

“Don’t know,” says Poe – of course. When he’s talking business, he assumes some of his old confidence, and it’s harder to remember he’s lost his memories. “But the women, Leia,” he goes on, “they breathe, they live through the trees, and I think they’re much more powerful than they let on.”

“I’ve got to tell Luke. By the Stars, Force users, _powerful_ Force users, ready to help us!”

“No. I don’t think they’d help that way. You heard them, it’s peace they’re made for. They defend themselves but they won’t attack. They’re making themselves, their world, feel small, insignificant, forgettable. But even if the Dark side wins, if the First Order takes over the whole Galaxy, this little place of peace will remain – hidden behind the darkness of their men and the Force shield of their women. A kernel of Light to expand again when the time is right.”

“Then we should withdraw! We shouldn’t draw the First Order’s attention to them!”

“That’s not what they chose. Build that base on their moon, maybe, act as if it was what you’re protecting? Lure the First Order away from Mainworld.”

Leia chuckles, finally finds the courage to pass a hand lightly on one shoulder. He stiffens, then relaxes and lets his head fall back into her hand.

“Poe,” she says, “even with your memories gone you’re still more valuable than the bulk of my staff. I haven’t thanked you properly. You saved the day when you brought out the women.”

He pulls out a little and turns his head to her. “I didn’t do it for the Resistance,” he says.

“For Finn, then?”

“Yes,” he says, “a little. It was what he’d have wanted. And a little for me, as the most viable solution. But mostly –” he grimaces, something like shame passing through his features – “mostly it was the game we played, Alua and I. A game he was teaching me only he could win. And so I wanted to _crush_ him in that last round. Pry all the power from his hands. And his freedom, too. Didn’t go exactly like I wanted. He’s still free.”

“Poe, you _won_. When you put that scimitar down and abandoned him to his game. You freed yourself.”

She’s certain he’s blinking back tears. “I hope so,” he says.

/

Later, when he’s cried all he could, when he’s told her things that make her shudder and yell inside, things she thinks he didn’t even tell Finn, when she’s hugged him and enveloped him in as much love as she could, she breathes in and talks again.

“You don’t have to stay here,” she says. “The Resistance has no meaning for you – yet. Beyond the fact that we, that _I_ ordered Finn to sacrifice you for a treaty. I’d understand if you wanted to leave. Kes will be happy to have you while you recover, same with Freia. I’m sure she can arrange something for the medical procedures. We’ll pay for anything you need. Anything, Poe.”

He chortles, mirthlessly, and nods. That’s it, she thinks. He’s going to leave.

“Finn is here,” he says. “So I won’t leave. He’s the one who’s going to have the hardest time processing the order you gave him, you realise? Though I’m not so far behind, I’ll admit. And I wonder about the other pilots. Anyway. When I was in the hands of Kylo Ren and made myself forget, seems I did it for the Resistance. I must have deemed it worth the sacrifice. I think I owe to myself to go on, then. Fighting for you.”

/

“I should go back to the medbay,” he says, even later. “Before they think I escaped you and found a way to off myself.”

“Oh, that’s what they’re afraid of?”

“Aren’t they?”

They probably are, she thinks.

“Well,” she says, “I trust you to make the fifty meters back by yourself.”

He smiles. “Thanks.”

She follows him anyway, far enough that he doesn’t see. Just to be sure. Watches him make his way into the ward, pushing his drip with him, and stop at the kid’s stall. She strains to listen.

“You were First Order?” she hears him ask the girl.

“You were the slave,” she answers.

“How did you end up in that bed?” he asks.

“Fell trying to climb a fence I shouldn’t have climbed. To see the Starfighters. They don’t know how to give orders here. Easy to disobey.”

“Sometimes you long for that kind of orders,” he says. “Those you can disobey. Weren’t you tired of always obeying?”

“I won’t _ever_ obey again,” she says, fierce.

“And you’ll break your bones a lot,” he smirks.

“ _You_ look rather functional for someone in intensive care.”

Here it is again, that mirthless chuckle. “Believe me, kid, I’m so dysfunctional it’s not even funny.”

“But they’re not ending you.”

“That’s what they do here. Keep us broken people alive and well.”

From her vantage point behind the glass panels, Leia can see the girl smile. It looks like she doesn’t do it often. Good, she thinks.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing. Karma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta read by the wonderful Stiletto Ren. Thank you so much! When I reread and insert the corrections, I'm like, "yeah, yeah, this smut scene is going smoothly, hope it's hot because I can't tell anymore, okay, aaaaaaaaaargh," @.@ *word that didn't mean what I intended at all because its meaning is completely different in my own language* * curses, erases and replaces*
> 
> Thank you all for you incredible, wonderful comments! I know I'm behind on answering, getting back to you as soon as possible <3

They kiss. Finn’s hands are around his waist, under his shirt. Just there. Warm, wide, comforting. Finn’s lips are soft and dry, Finn’s tongue is soft and wet as it bumps and slides along his own. The kiss is slow, long, tender. They have time. There will be other kisses.

“I really have to go now,” Finn says. “It’s not polite to make Generals wait. You’ll be alright in medbay?”

“Sure,” he says. He isn’t wired to anything this time. No sensors. No tubes. “If I had stayed in our quarters they’d have plagued me with their fucking nurse droids, as if BB-8 wasn’t enough. Besides, my ribs hurt. Better to be close to the source of painkillers, huh.”

“Yeah,” says Finn. “Take care.”

“Take care.” Poe smiles. “Don’t get yourself killed, uh?”

Finn grins in answer. “Yeah. I’ll try not to die of boredom. If I had known that Leia would want to start me on a diplomatic career, I’d – hell, I’d have said yes, Ma’am anyway but I don’t have to like it.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re good at it. I saw you.”

He sees Finn shiver a little. “You’ll be okay here, Poe? Really?” Finn asks, concern in his voice.

“I’ll manage,” Poe says. “Don’t make your General wait, Finn. Off you go.”

He’ll manage. Maybe better than the other times, when his thoughts just went blank as Finn left and his mind could do nothing beyond trying to reach out to him. This time, he felt something very small stir, a hint of jealously at the idea of Finn _doing something_ as he’s holed up there, waiting. Trying to heal.

That must mean he _is_ healing. In some way.

He hears a sigh on his left, but when he turns his head the kid swiftly looks away.

She’s not as opaque as she wishes she were, though. Poe knows only too well the kind of look the kid directs to the too small, too high window. But she’s as good as _wired_ to that bed with the complex apparatus holding her crushed foot in the air, and the pain has obviously abated enough for her to be bored. Well, his ribs are fucking hurting but _he_ can walk.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

She doesn’t even turn her head but he can see her jaw jut forward and tense. “LN-1983,” she says.

He remembers enough to put this in perspective. His horror at hearing Finn’s number. Finn’s blank, matter-of-fact statement.

This girl doesn’t sound like that at all. She’s defiant. Proud. How old is she, he wonders. Eleven? Twelve? She’s shooting up but is still as thin as a reed.

“Let me guess,” he says. “That’s easy. They want to make an Ellen out of you?”

“That or Elena,” she spits. “It worked for Finn, didn’t it? They say you named him.”

“Yeah, well. He made the name his. He paid me back, too. Gave me back my own name not so long ago.”

“Huh?”

“I had no name that I could remember for a while. Only what they wanted me to be. Pilot. Slave.” He bites back the last denomination.

“They want me to be an Elena,” she growls, low. “And your Finn never had a name before. Always was an outsider. I wasn’t. I was good. I was going to be _great_.”

“Finn told me some of the Stormtroopers have nicknames.”

“Hiss.”

“What?”

“My name was Hiss. Because of the sound I make when I’m angry. I’m often angry. My captain said it was something to cultivate. TIE pilots have to be aggressive.”

“Aggressive. They fucking are. And then they’re dead. You certainly have the makings of a TIE pilot, Hiss.”

He sits down, tries to lean back – is there any position where his ribs aren’t screaming murder? Fuck the meddroids and their barbaric methods.

“Well,” he says. “X-Wings pilots are slower, heavier. They can be aggressive but have to be clever. And they jump. Hyperdrive, Hiss. Which is something I need to relearn if I want to fly again. Want to help me study?”

She’s not smiling and her jaw is as tense as ever. But he can see how she’s worrying a loose thread in her hospital gown. “Okay,” she says.

/

“Hey, Poe!”

That’s Jess Pava, running towards him with a big, happy, fake smile on her face.

“Jess! Back from your mission?”

“Yesterday evening, actually. How have you been going? Your ribs?”

“They’re done setting them straight. Fucking long, evil month of that, uh. You can’t know how glad I am it’s done.”

She’s looking at his face with a painful intensity, searching. Her eyes stop on his scar, wander to his hair and back to somewhere around his mouth. She doesn’t meet his gaze.

“You still look too thin,” she says. “Uh. Here’s something for you. Homemade. We thought it would help.”

“What is it?”

“Dandoran purple flatcakes with real bantha milk and genuine, fresh wasaka berries. I collected them myself on Kashyyyk.”

The flatcakes probably smell good. Correction, they do smell good, although he doesn’t know if it translates into him feeling interested. They look good as well, he tells himself. Nice texture, pretty colours, easy to break into small pieces to eat. He promises himself he’ll try.

“Try one now?” Pava insists.

He smiles, breaks a small bit, chews. Swallows. It’s nice, he’s got to admit. Crumbly texture, not too fat, nice twangy taste from the berries.

“Hey,” he smiles, “they’re good? Can’t believe it. Learned to cook while I was away, Jess?”

Now that’s a genuine smile from Pava, a bit hesitant and wobbly with emotion. She’s smart enough to refrain from asking the usual question– but yes, he remembers.

“Nah,” she smirks. “Believe me, I’m very aware of my own limitations. Snap had the idea, found the recipe and cooked them, I merely gathered the berries and tested the result. And brought what was left here.”

Her eyes track his hands as he breaks another bit and brings it to his mouth. “Well, they’re really good,” he says. “Must be the berries. Hey, say thanks to Snap for me?”

“Sure. He’s sorry he couldn’t bring them in person.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, too.”

They both know why Wexley avoids meeting Poe out of collective gatherings. Jess is small, female, shouts a lot when approaching people. Wexley is male, taller and bulkier than Poe, and has always tended to touch people, slapping their arms, bumping their chest or squeezing their necks without warning. After the first four or five times Poe jumped, flinched, broke into a cold sweat or just plain flew, Wexley learned to keep away.

It shames Poe. He hates that he isn’t able to control himself. But he’s still relieved that Pava acted as an intermediary.

“We’re having a small party this evening,” Pava blurts. “Nothing special. The eating, drinking, I-can’t-believe-that-fucking-X Wing-flew-me-home kind. Watching holovids. You and Finn are welcome.”

“Ah,” says Poe, touching the white in his hair reflexively. “Thank you, Jess. I – I’m sorry. You know I can’t drink at all. But ask Finn? He might want to go. And, uh, I’ve promised to study with Hiss this evening.”

“Hiss?”

“One of Finn’s kids. Well. Next time, uh?”

“Yeah.”

/

Poe’s still not very clear on how he stood with Rey before. He knows he used to feel awe at Force users, but that had already begun to change after his first brush with Kylo Ren. And his memories of the second time are set in a complete sequence now and only too vivid, populating his nightmares with the slam of his limbs against furniture and the sound of his own bones crushing.

So Force users make him uneasy now, if he’s being honest with himself.

And he’s only too aware of the contradiction, thank you very much, the Force being what saved him on Usawa. He knows how the Force trees soothed his mind, doesn’t think he’d have survived without his bond to Finn, and right now he won’t forsake what little he knows how to use, if only when he’s fucking Finn’s ass – and kissing, licking, fingering that gorgeous ass, and that gorgeous man, and sharing orgasms like he’d never thought possible.

But Rey – so powerful, so young, so accomplished. There must always have been an element of competition in their relationship. She’s a damn good pilot, she was Finn’s closest friend – he wonders if he was jealous before. He’d rather she’d stay out of his life even now, but here she is, knocking at the door of their quarters.

“Hi, Poe,” she says. “Programming? That’s what you’re reading about?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to keep waiting to see if the holes in my memory fill in by themselves. Programming, navigation, I can’t discover at the last minute that I made a mistake. Besides, some of these First Order kids are damn brilliant, gotta stay ahead.”

“You’re teaching them?”

“Sort of. Got a bunch of them on my back. Keeping them occupied’s the best strategy to avoid a catastrophe.”

“Finn told me you’ve opened a crack in Elena’s armour?”

“Hiss? The first step is not to call her Elena. Not sure of what’s behind the armour, though.” He smirks. “Probably something fucking scary.”

“Well,” says Rey, “I can’t stay long. Paau’s waiting for me in orbit. I only came down because Savili insisted.”

“Paau? She’s flying with you?”

“Yeah. A transport, from our Usawa base to the Cchalp system. Poe, Usawa is – the trees, they are –”

“I know. You look happy, Rey. More peaceful. How’s Paau?”

“She’s lovely! Uh, I mean, she’s well.”

What, Poe thinks. Rey is blushing.

“Rey, Paau is _lovely?_ ”

“And what if I think she is?” asks Rey. “She’s sweet, and she’s so strong with the Force, it’s refreshing not to have to restrain myself. I know she’s so tall and she hasn’t got breasts, not even nipples, but I think her body’s gorgeous, the swell of her belly, Poe! And her eyes, green but also brown, so human, and her skin, it shimmers in the sun, Poe, like soft metal, and her hands, they are so –”

“Please,” he says, trying to block the memories, “Rey, I know how their eyes, their skins are, you’re about to describe intimate things, please don’t.” He exhales. “Even if Paau _is_ a lovely girl and I’m very happy for you both.”

Rey looks ashamed, even ill. “Shit, sorry,” she says. “I – I won’t stay long, as I said. I only came in to bring you Savili’s present and give you the news.”

“Present? News?”

“Present. Here.”

Of course she gestures with her hand, levitating the present in question, which is quite bulky.

“A potted plant? Oh, damn. A Force tree. A _Force tree_ in a pot? Is that even allowed?”

“Savili feels you need it. She says you can keep it with you, in the pot, or plant it in a place you love and want to come back to. And, uh. The news. She lost her husband.”

“She?” He knows what Rey means. He still asks.

“Savili. Alua’s dead.”

“Oh.”

It’s a lot to process. Alua’s dead. His master. He should exult, perhaps. He’s still alive, his master’s dead. Or he should rage at being forever prevented from finding some kind of closure – some more complete revenge.

But mostly he thinks he feels nothing at all. Having been broken by the hands of a now dead man is still being broken.

“He was piloting a freighter,” Rey goes on even though he doesn’t really care. “Seems he became good very fast, not Poe Dameron good but pretty decent. So he took up the insystem phrik traffic. Savili says he knew the risks – enjoyed the game.”

Game. Rey doesn’t know. He shouldn’t take it against her.

“Well, he got boarded by some pirate. An incredible move. She, the pirate, somewhat disabled the shields, shot precisely at the sole weakness in the hull and boarded through a hatch. He couldn’t steer his ship anymore and should have surrendered. But he was the High Lord once, huh. Of course he didn’t. Had no weapons, so he tried to take the woman’s blaster and succeeded though he was fatally wounded. He killed the pirate. That madman still managed to jury-rig a steering engine and brought his freighter in orbit of Mainworld. Died there.”

Poe’s dizzy. I never wanted that, he thinks. Or rather, I never orchestrated it. Not consciously. Maybe I wanted it. Because I never told Savili about the freighters’ weaknesses.

“Seems I got my revenge,” he says. “The pendulum swings. He died closer to the Light side. I live closer to the Dark.”

“What,” says Rey.

“Doesn’t matter.”

In the back of his mind, the leaves of the Force tree are stirring. Peace, they convey. We don’t judge you. Be at peace.

/

“Finn,” Dr Kalonia says. “I need a word with you.”

Finn needs to sleep. The refugee negotiation with the Cchalp officials was a resounding flop and he wants nothing more than to forget it all and _rest_.

“Alright,” he says. “It’s going to be about Poe, isn’t it. I thought his healing was going well?”

“Physically, it’s going great. Especially now that we’ve realised no humanoid, well, organic being should touch him, only meddroids. He’s still a bit thin but I think we can tackle the brain surgery next.” She sighs. “Ah. He’s not getting better. During the last therapy session, he said he won’t kill himself because you ordered him not to.”

“Yes,” he says. “I know. Thank the Force for that. Though ordered is not quite the word.”

“What? There’s nothing to be thankful for. You need to step down. What if –”

“What if I leave him? That’s what you’re afraid of? I won’t leave him. I love him.”

“Love? It’s damn _unhealthy_ , Finn, that’s what it is. I know you’d do anything for him but – but that kind of power over someone, it’s – soul crushing. Let him go. Don’t make him so dependent on you!”

“Poe’s not _so_ _dependent_. I didn’t save him. He saved himself.”

“Back then, maybe. Not now.”

“You think so? Look at him. His life doesn’t revolve around me. He’s got resources, friends. The tree. BB-8. The children. The pilots. Kes and Freia. Even Leia.”

Even as he says it, he knows that it isn’t enough. Poe _is_ suffering, he _is_ struggling, and he _is_ clutching at Finn like Finn’s one of the very rare good things in his life. Well. Poe, this broken, insanely brave, beautiful, _hot_ man is certainly the best thing in Finn’s life. They’re even.

“Ah, yes. The children. I’m not sure we should let them hang around with him. Some of them are regressing. That girl, Elena. She scares me.”

“I think that he only lets them be who they are. Not who we’d like them to be.”

“You’re telling me I have to let you both be, aren’t you?”

“Stop having him followed around everywhere by your droids. Yes, they don’t make him react as Wexley’s neck grabs do, and I know you’re afraid of leaving him alone, but they piss him off. Really. He wouldn’t dismantle a droid, but you don’t want to discover what kind of reprogramming he’s able to do. Kalonia. Trust him, for a change.”

/

Finn rattles his feet and calls as he punches in the key at their door. Poe still needs warnings.

Poe’s in the ‘fresher, naked except for his briefs, passing the clippers through his hair. Finn stops and takes in the view, the round ass and strong thighs, the slender ankles with whitening, fading scars, the straight, stronger line of his back, the play of muscles in his arms as he raises them over his head. That stubborn little roll of fat he used to have over his hips hasn’t come back and Finn realises he misses it absurdly. 

There’s nothing that he’d love more than hugging Poe from behind and kissing the nape of his neck. He calls again instead.

“Poe, I’m home.”

Poe turns and smiles.

“Hey, lovely,” he says. “Give us a kiss?”

“I see you’re back to your old habits,” Finn says after a while. “There’s still a desk under that mess?”

“Ah, shit. I sort of got carried away.”

“By navigation data and maps?”

“You know how it is.”

“With navigation, I don’t know, no. But I can imagine. Wexley told me that you’ve actually taught yourself to a better level than you were before.”

“I know. He helped me with the last set of problems.”

“He did? Like, in person?”

“Yeah, I – went and talked. About the triggers. And, uh, how we could work at avoiding them.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah. Still awkward, but I’ll take what I can.”

That time Finn doesn’t refrain from pulling Poe close and nuzzling his neck, kissing his hairline behind his ear.

“So you’re still not growing your hair back,” he mumbles against his skin. “I miss your curls.”

Poe stiffens.

“You too?” he says.

“Me what?”

“Like the others. They’re all doing it. Waiting oh-so-patiently for me to become who I was before. ‘Miss your hair, Poe.’ ‘Come drink with us, Poe.’ ‘When are you going to get out the tri-harp again, Poe?’ Shit. That the memories from before are back doesn’t mean the memories from after are going to disappear.”

“I know,” says Finn, mouth still in the hollow of Poe’s shoulder, hands massaging his back. “I know.” The hands nearly go up to help the muscles of his neck relax but he stops in time. Would probably be the worse he could do. “How could I forget? I ran after you for so long. Felt our bond turn to lead. Talked to Lyell. Saw you with Alua. It’s incredible that you’re still standing. That you’re getting _better_. I know it changed you.”

Finn pushes Poe a little further back, looks into his eyes. “It’s the Poe that’s standing here and now that I love,” he says. “I love you, my beautiful, brave man. Scars and all. But I still miss your curls.”

Poe passes a hand through the fresh stubble on his scalp. “Ah. You’re the only one here, Finn, literally the only one who can do more than imagine what I went through. Sometimes I’m thinking it’s too heavy a load.” He grimaces a little, clears his throat. “Well, it wouldn’t make a lot of sense to grow it now, just before the surgery. Later – we’ll see?”

Finn’s fingers draw idle circles on Poe’s back, then wander down to cup his butt cheeks.

“How’s your ass?” he asks.

“Great! Seriously. I’m so relieved it feels, well, normal down there now.” He hisses a little as Finn’s fingers become more precise. “Unless you’re asking about how it’s recovering from your fingers since the other day. The answer is – mmmh, _fuck_ , Finn – yeah. The answer is, my ass and I would very much like to do it again. And –” he sucks in a breath, bites his lips and looks up. “And more.”

Finn’s cock, already well on its way to full hardness, twitches happily at the idea, and there’s no way Poe can’t feel it, all draped that he is over Finn’s front.

“Are you sure?” Finn asks, then remembers it might not be the right way to phrase the question.

But Poe’s caged look is only fleeting and if his voice is hoarse as he answers it’s only with desire. “I want to try,” he says. “I trust you.”

 _Peace_ , whispers the potted tree from its corner of the room.

“Uh,” says Finn. “Do you think it’s sentient? Because –”

“Dunno. I’d think not. It feels more like a kind of lens? Deflecting, concentrating the Force. But still. I don’t want to feel like I’m ogled by a tree. Let’s push it outside?”

“If it works like a lens, could feel even better?”

“Uh. No. Too weird. Don’t want things to get overwhelming.”

“Yeah.”

/

The tree’s out and they’re back in and Poe pushes Finn on the bed – never the other way around, Finn wouldn’t dare, would be too afraid of Poe flipping out. Poe rolls on top of Finn, positions his elbows on each side of Finn’s head and kisses him, unhurried and long, moaning softly in Finn’s mouth, grinding a little against his hips. Finn brings his hands in Poe’s too-short hair, digs his nails in, exhales at the feeling of Poe’s tongue between his own lips. He pulls Poe in, raises his face up, deepening the kiss and smiling into it. It feels comfortable, familiar, _arousing_ , and he tries to push all these emotions towards Poe.

Poe’s still grinding against him, still kissing, a bit sloppily, not doing anything more, so Finn trails his hands down his nape, taking some time to follow the hairline with his fingers, then down his neck and his shoulderblades over his shirt, and a little up to bunch up the shirt and touch the skin. He feels it shiver as his fingers trail along the cords of muscle of his back, then dig into his hips and dip inside the hem of his pants to cup his ass. Poe’s breath hitches with that and he becomes very still as Finn’s hands caress and knead the cheeks, part them a little, fingers splayed and grazing his crack.

Poe’s breathing hard and when Finn looks up he sees his eyes closed, his face still and somewhat scrunched in concentration, the nostrils flaring. He’s beautiful and vulnerable and trusting and Finn’s heart jumps in his chest. Poe’s ass is firm and round under his hands, the skin soft and warm but slightly raised with goosebumps.

“Cold?” asks Finn.

“Nah. Just your hands,” says Poe with another shiver. “Don’t stop.”

Finn doesn’t stop, just strokes the skin, one finger digging in Poe’s crack sometimes, just passing over his hole and each time Poe shivers, the goosebumps more apparent and the muscles of his chest convulsing a little. When he does stop, long enough to unbutton Poe’s shirt and pull his own over his head, and then push down Poe’s pants and underwear, Poe’s leg jerk to help them along is a little fast, a little tense. When Finn rests his hands back on Poe’s lower back it feels too stiff, and Finn realises that Poe stopped kissing him, his mouth just there on his cheek, short fast puffs of air wetting his earlobe.

Finn’s not sure Poe’s dick along his own hip is as hard as it was minutes before.

“You’re sure you’re up to it?” he asks. “I don’t mind if we –”

“No,” mutters Poe, mouth still on Finn’s jaw. “I want it.”

Finn brings a tentative hand back on Poe’s ass but when his finger grazes his hole again Poe’s start is unmistakable and his shiver doesn’t feel like arousal anymore.

“Shit,” says Poe. “Shit.”

“It’s alright,” Finn tries to say.

“No. It’s not. Shit. He – he’s dead, fucking hell, I can’t, I don’t want to have him take over my mind and my sex life like that – fuck. Finn, I. –” He inhales deep, kisses the corner of Finn’s mouth with lips that tremble just a little. “Finn, let’s get back to it. I _want_ it, I used to love being fucked before, fuck, I haven’t stopped fantasising about your cock in my ass for _weeks_.”

“Poe. You’re so tense right now I can _feel_ you fighting not to jump when I touch you. No way you’ll enjoy it and you know I won’t –‘’

“ _Finn_ …” Poe only says, voice breaking.

“Hey,” says Finn. “Hey. Tell you what – would you like a massage? Back rub? If it unwinds you enough, maybe we can try again afterwards, uh?”

Massages had been a staple of their strange bunkmates’ life before Poe had gone missing and it had been the sweetest kind of torture for Finn – for the both of them, he guesses now, so much skin contact and intimacy and so much need to hide inappropriate reactions. But they’ve never gone back to it, Finn because he’s wary of all the possible manifestations of Poe’s trauma and Poe – Finn doesn’t know why Poe hasn’t brought it up. A hole in his memory, possibly, or some part of his body he still doesn’t want touched.

“Yes,” Poe says. “I’d very much like it. I think the oil’s still in the alcove. Hope it didn’t go bad.”

“Smells okay to me,” says Finn, uncorking the bottle. “We’ll have to risk it, yell if it burns or something?”

Finn begins on Poe’s lower back, long strokes up the taut muscles of his back, hands spreading and pushing on the sides under his shoulderblades – Poe’s shoulders need work, they obviously do with the way he’s been walking with his back hunched and shoulders too high for the past months, but his neck is such a forbidden area that Finn doesn’t dare. As he kneads the skin and then the muscle, progressively deepening his touch, he wonders at how easily they’re falling back into their long-ago routine, Poe with his head on his folded arms, head slightly twisted so that Finn can just make out his profile, his closed eyes and his long eyelashes; Finn sitting on the top of Poe’s thighs, still in his pants, lost in the rhythm of his strokes and in the smooth slickness of Poe’s skin, feeling his cock harden again and brush on Poe’s ass each time he bends over his back.

Poe exhales, something between a moan and a long sigh, his eyelids fluttering and his mouth opening slightly, his muscles beginning to feel looser under Finn’s hands. It feels familiar, and yet not – his fingers don’t dig in the way they did before, Poe’s skin tauter over the muscles and bones, the former thin layer of fat gone. Finn keeps trying to work on Poe’s former usual muscle knots, only to find them gone and replaced by others, more numerous, in new places. A legacy of his bone breaks, though Kalonia’s work is apparent in the small incision scars where she had to operate to rebreak and repair the bones. Other scars, thin and white, radiate from his neck to his upper arms and shoulderblades – Alua’s scimitar, and it’s now Finn who has to suppress a shiver at the memory of Poe spread in the mud with a blade pressing into his skin.

“Would you massage my neck?” Poe asks, voice gone hoarse. “Very much needs it.”

It jolts Finn back to the present, to his hands on the skin of this beautiful, healing man who will never stop trying to push his boundaries.

“Sure,” says Finn. “You tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

It turns out it is not. Poe’s spasm when Finn’s fingers slide higher is only temporary, and afterwards it feels like he’s putting himself into Finn’s hands, finally allowing himself to bend his head and offer his neck not in surrender but in an act of trust.

“Finn,” Poe says after a while as Finn is working at the whole of his back, in long deep moves from his lower back to his neck that have Finn somewhat short of breath with arousal. “I think you can go down, now. To my ass.”

There’s a slight tremor in Poe’s tone, but Finn couldn’t tell if it’s from fear, anticipation or just plain lust. He’s hesitating and Poe feels it, turns slightly on his side and takes one of Finn’s hands, bringing it not on his ass but over his fully hard cock. It feels hot and heavy as Finn closes his fist around and Poe makes a strange sound, a hiss that stops abruptly as his breath hitches and he bites his lower lip. Finn wants to touch that mouth, does it with fingers that press and push a little – by the Force, Poe looks _gone_ , just melting with arousal, even more when he takes Finn’s fingers in his mouth, and Finn can’t help the moan that escapes him.

“See,” Poe manages to mumble around Finn’s fingers, “want it, want it so much, put these fingers in me, Finn, _now_ , and then your cock.”

There’s an element of urgency in his tone, Finn senses – he wants it, wants it now, while he’s high enough with arousal, before he overthinks it. “Okay,” says Finn, “let’s do this.”

He slicks his whole hand with the body oil and pushes one finger past Poe’s entrance. Poe squirms a little at the intrusion but his cock jumps in Finn’s other hand and he raises his leg over Finn’s arm for better access. Stroking Poe’s cock while fingering his ass _and_ kissing him might require some contortions on both parts but Finn can’t resist those parted, wet, flushed lips and it looks like Poe needs it, needs the tenderness as well as the passion.

“I’ve got you,” Finn mumbles into Poe’s mouth, “I’m here, love, for you.”

Two fingers, sliding in and out and finding his prostate elicit a moan out of Poe and a strangled plea of, “Stop touching my cock, fuck, Finn, don’t wanna come right now, wanna last, just open me, _come_ _on_!” Three fingers add pressure, Poe’s hole tight around him and Finn has to look up and check whether Poe still enjoys it – and it seems he does, his cock flushed and rock-hard, his face slick with sweat and his mouth lax, but his eyes closed and his expression turned inside.

“You’re still with me?” Finn asks in a hoarse whisper, feeling his own cock twitch and making his fingers stay still.

Poe opens his eyes and nods, manages to smile a little, bites his lips again. “Okay, I’m good, move, ahh – like that, yeah, fuck, love your fingers –”

Finn scissors and twists for a while, until he feels Poe really open, really relax, until he sees him flushed and licking his lips and breathing hard, and adds the fourth finger. Poe gasps and hisses and swears, lies still for an instant and then swears again, exhales and _fucks himself_ on Finn’s hand, pulling with his bent leg for leverage. It’s mind-numbingly hot and Finn wants to be inside him, inside with his cock in his ass, _now_ , but he’s still not sure, still afraid this is going to end in a monumental catastrophe, looks at Poe’s heaving chest and at his hands clutching the sheets.

“Fucking hell, you still have your pants on, what are you waiting for,” rasps Poe, grabbing the waistline of both pants and underwear and trying to push down, swearing when Finn pulls his fingers out of Poe’s ass to remove them himself.

“You’re ready?” asks Finn, his voice rough.

“I am. Do it _now_ , Finn, don’t wait, I, ah –”

“On your back?”

“Hands and knees, prefer the angle, want to feel you over me, want you, Finn, _please_ –”

Finn slicks himself and slides into Poe, slowly, easily, stops two thirds in to let him adjust. It’s been so long, he’s dreamed of that for the best part of the two last years, and it makes it hard not to push in at once. But Poe’s back is covered in sweat, his shoulders are bunched up and his ass tight and tense around Finn.

“Okay,” breathes Poe, “feel good, but talk to me, please, need to know it’s you. Ah, Force, I want you, _you_ , _Finn_ …”

Finn bends over his back and kisses his jaw, just under the ear, holds him with both hands around his arms, hoping it won’t feel too overwhelming, says: “I’m here, Poe, we’re here, with the Resistance, it’s home, you’re home –” he knows he’s babbling but it works, Poe’s breathes becoming deeper and his shoulders less tense, and Finn now kisses and licks at Poe’s ear, relishes the needy little moans it wrings out of him. “You feel good,” he says, “so good around me, your ass, Poe, you don’t know how much I want it, you can’t know how long I’ve been wanting it –”

“Me too,” moans Poe, “Finn, your cock in me –” he breathes in, hard. “Move?” he says, sounding not so sure, but when Finn does it feels like it’s always been right, Poe pushing back to meet him with a guttural grunt, opening around his cock and letting him glide inside until he’s sheathed to the hilt. “Move,” Poe says again, more assertive, and he’s again the one initiating the rhythm, spread open and pushing back, his glorious ass moving around Finn, the muscles of his back and shoulder rolling under his golden skin, and for a fleeting moment it makes Finn wonder what kind of spectacular, flamboyant lover Poe must have been before all of this happened.

But it doesn’t matter now, because this is only for Finn, only for Poe, just the two of them taken and lost in that dance, and Poe so hot and slick and open around him, meeting Finn’s thrust with thrusts of his own and it looks like he’s fighting, not fighting Finn but fighting fate, fears, scars, everything between him and pleasure, between him and love, and it _works_.

And Finn feels like he’s fighting alongside Poe as he passes his hands along his sides, grabs his hips, and pounds in, hard, abandoning himself to the glorious feel of the friction and the heat and the pressure. He feels Poe shiver and hears him swear each time he hits right, feels his own voice go hoarse with how much he’s shouting and can’t help fucking Poe even harder, long, deep thrusts that have Poe curve his spine and yell, and then brace against the wall, up on his knees and legs spread apart. Finn stands on his knees behind him, his chest flush against Poe’s back, arms around him for contact as well as balance, mouth on his shoulder, kissing, smelling his skin, tasting the saltiness of his sweat, grunting, moaning, shouting, well past words.

There’s anger in their moves, in the slam of hips against ass, in the bruises the grip of Finn’s hand is going to draw on Poe’s ribs, but it’s defiance as well, it’s them yelling to the world that they can do this, free from their past, in so much lust, and in so much love. And there’s passion, and tenderness as Finn’s hand rises to Poe’s mouth and Poe kisses its palm, again and again.

Poe’s close, pleasure building in waves, his ass clenching and his chest heaving, or is it Finn, teetering on the edge, losing his rhythm, pounding and pounding into the heat of Poe’s hole, but in truth it’s the both of them, lost in their bond and sharing every sensation, to the point where Finn doesn’t know anymore whether he’s the one being filled so gloriously or the one thrusting inside.

“Your hand –” Poe manages to grunt, the effort to talk nearly too much, “Finn, don’t want to come untouched, your hand, on my – ah, on my cock –”

Finn complies even before Poe’s finished, wraps his fist around that leaking, twitching hard length and even that is too much for Poe who comes with a yell, throwing his head back and clenching powerfully around Finn’s cock, splattering the wall and the bedding with his come. Finn follows, how couldn’t he, how wouldn’t he, his shout an echo of Poe’s, keeps on spending himself inside his lover as he twists enough to catch the corner of Poe’s lips in his own, as they collapse backwards on top of each other. They end with Finn spooning around Poe, still wracked by the aftershocks of orgasm.

“Shit,” says Poe after a while. “Did I bite your hand, Finn?”

Finn looks at the hand he’d brought to Poe’s mouth. “Ow. Looks like you did.”

“Ugh. Sorry?”

“Are you, really?”

Poe turns to face Finn, still holding his hand, smiles. “Not really. Holy crap, Finn, that was –”

“One for the ages, yeah,” Finn finishes dreamily.

“Yeah. Uh. Think you’d be up for round two?” Poe’s still out of breath, looks as spent as Finn feels. “In a while?” he adds, wiping the sweat from Finn’s forehead. “I – I’m not sure I could ever stop wanting more.”

“Anything you want,” says Finn. “Anything.”

/

Finn can’t remember having seen Poe so still. Even when they brought him back from Usawa, he was delirious, tossing around in his sleep and coughing. Now he’s just lying there unmoving behind the glass partition, machines beeping steadily around, his head shaven and bandaged. Their connexion is still there, and it’s helping a lot to keep the panic at bay, but Poe feels very, very far away. And calm, Finn notices after a while. Relaxed. The ever-present line between his eyebrows is notably fainter.

Maybe the surgery really worked. Maybe it wasn’t just Kalonia wanting to placate Finn with soothing lies. He’s stable. He will wake up. Maybe everything’s going to be all right. Maybe the headaches have stopped crippling him.

“We have Kes Dameron on holovid,” calls Leia, coming in. “He wants to talk to you.”

“And Freia?”

“Seems she’s in labour. Or having her baby. Or just had her.”

Finn tries a smile, willing his mind not to go there, not to succumb to the dark, illogical thoughts, a life for a life, one going down when the other’s going up, please let them be all right, let all of us be all right. “Bad timing, eh?” he says.

Leia smiles back. “You know it’s why she’s not here, she didn’t want to risk it so close to term. That’s why Poe went to visit them right before.” She puts a hand on Finn’s biceps. “Come on, soldier. Poe’s going to be all right. The surgeons are happy with their work, Kalonia is elated, even the meddroids are more excited than I thought they could. Let’s bring you to Kes.”

Even on video, Kes looks good. His cheeks are a little fuller than last year, his back a little straighter and less tense. It’s good that Freia stuck around, Finn thinks. But Kes, right now, looks also terribly worried and trying very hard to hide it.

“He’s alright, Kes,” says Finn as fast as he can. “The surgery went on for a long time but it’s done and he’s stable. Lots of tubes and drips and sensors everywhere and they put him in some sort of coma but he’s not in pain.”

“Sure,” says Kes. “He’s in a coma, got painkillers, of course he’s not in pain.”

“I can feel it. I didn’t realise how much it crippled him before, how continuous it was – but now that the pain is gone, it feels like such a relief. It’s gone, Kes. Promise.” It feels good, saying it. Makes it more real.

“How are his vital signs?” asks a new voice as a female torso comes into view behind Kes.

“Freia? Weren’t you busy having a child?”

“Yesterday. She’s here with me. Kes appears to think I should do nothing else than lying in bed with her but that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Kes?”

“Damn that woman,” says Kes very fondly. “Fucking reminds me of Shara. Fucking hard-headed.”

“Can you believe he pestered me until I agreed on Shara as her middle name?” smiles Freia.

“That’s a nice name,” answers Finn, who’ll be interested to witness Poe’s reaction. “What’s her first name?”

Kes snorts and Freia looks resolutely at the holorecorder. “Pilot.”

“Pilot,” confirms Kes with a smirk that makes him look like Poe. “Pilot Shara Solana. She’s going to run from anything that flies as soon as she can stand. Mark my words, she’s going to be a librarian. Or a programmer. Maybe a trooper, even.”

“Shut up, old man,” says Freia with a smile. “If we ever find my son, he’ll be Kes. And I’m sure I’ll be enough for him to become a, a _cook_. Her name’s Pilot even if you don’t like it.” She looks to the recorder again and at Finn through it. “That’s something he asked me for, back when we both thought he was – ah, not going to make it. Poe – I didn’t know it was his name at the time, he was just Pilot when I met him. And Poe would have sounded strange for a girl – oh, do shut up, Kes. So,” she says, turning a little and leaning in so that Finn can see the absolutely tiny baby snuggled up in a sling. “Pilot.”

“His vitals are good,” says Finn, belatedly remembering Freia’s question. “Kalonia says that his brain scan and brainwaves are completely, absolutely back to normal. She swears. It’s – it’s just hard to wait for him to wake up.”

“Yeah,” Freia says in a very tiny voice, though she’d been smiling wide just before. “It is.”

“You love him too, don’t you?” asks Finn. There’s something very intimate in the way Freia talks about Poe, and together with the reference to their awful, shared past and this new child who was as good as born into Poe’s family, it makes Finn feel a little unsecure, and more than a little jealous.

Freia looks down at Kes – was that something that came up between them as well? – and back up to Finn, smiles. “You must have realised that everyone does, uh? Even that bastard Lyell. Even – fuck, even now I won’t say it. Ah. Of course I had a crush on him when I met him. He was – hope, I think, something else, someone able to care when – ah. And he looked gorgeous, even as banged up as he was. But he – he’s a good friend, Finn, the best. And nothing more. Back then, I thought it was strange how someone without a past could seem so distant. It felt like he was hiding a part of who he was. Using something I didn’t see to make himself go on. Now I know that there must have been a part of you that he could reach. It was you, all along. He loves you, so much, Finn.”

It’s Kes who makes a strangled sound at these words and Finn suddenly wonders whether Kes wouldn’t have wanted something else for his only son, something with a wife like Freia, with grandchildren. But Kes is smiling as he says. “Go back to the medbay, Finn. I can see you’re dying to be with him. It’s good, it’s so damn good that you’re here for him.”

/

It’s been three weeks since the surgery and Poe is beginning to adjust to feeling so light-headed all the time. He has to stop thinking of it as light-headed, he knows, it’s just his head feeling normal, not dragged down by the constant headache.

And it makes him restless, the catching up he’s been doing in navigation and programming now feeling _easy_. And _boring_.

At least, he’s got Hiss to keep him on his toes.

“What went through that hard head of yours this time?” he asks her. “I wasn’t here to check on you, so you decided to try electrocution for a change?”

Hiss is lying with a severe burn on her arm and side and might still look rather pale, but that doesn’t prevent her from sounding as angry as ever. “Wanted to understand what’s so special about these astromechs of yours,” she snaps. “We don’t have them in the First Order.”

“And so you tried to dismantle one? One from the Starfighters squadrons? _Snap’s_?”

“What if I did?”

Poe snorts. “You got tasered, is what. And not nicely. BT-13 must have thought you _are_ First Order. And let me tell you, there are a few around here who seem to share the feeling.”

With anyone else Poe would think they’d be about to cry. But that’s Hiss. So she doesn’t. “You weren’t there,” she says. “They wouldn’t let me come in to see you. And Finn was always with you, so I couldn’t get ahold of him. But I don’t care. I’ve just been thinking. I still don’t understand what you could think makes your X-Wings better, with all their weight and their astromechs and their hyperdrives and all.”

“You really want to be a pilot,” says Poe.

“Of course I want to. I know they won’t let me, though.”

“Who knows? When you’re older, of course.”

“I’m thirteen! In the First Order, they’d have begun to teach me and I’d have gotten my own fighter in two years.”

“Fucking hell.”

“What?”

“You know what, Hiss? Want to pilot? Let’s get to the simulators. There are a few double-command ones, I can show you a few tricks. And I can try to impress on that thick head of yours why X-Wings are so damn better.”

/

It’s his first time in the sims since that nightmarish runs with the slavers. But it’s not important. Not anymore. If anything, he feels anticipation, a kind of competitive pleasure building up. He’s been forbidding himself to think of piloting, these last months, he realises. Not going to the sims, not going up, even with a co-pilot, afraid of wanting it too much, afraid that a little bit of it would only make the loss of the whole thing feel more acute.

But he’s got Hiss to work with, now. And she needs that. They pilot a few runs together, him showing her the ropes, first with TIE settings, then with X-Wing ones. She’s good. Excellent. Great reflexes, fast thinking, excellent sense of space and timing. Good at anticipating.

Then he makes them engage in dogfights, she always with the TIE sim, he with his X-Wing favourite settings – the closest a sim could go to his old ship’s real ones. She can’t approach him. Of course she can’t. He isn’t – wasn’t the Resistance’s best pilot for nothing.

“Fucking hell,” she says as he switches off the sim – and that’s completely something she picked from him, because Stormtroopers don’t swear in the presence of ranking officers – “you killed me, what, ten times?”

“Twelve. Wrecked you in the gas giant, twice.”

“Fuck, no way that was you! I just lost control, flew too close.”

“Sure. Because I made you. See? You don’t have to be the fastest or make the sharpest turn to win. I took TIEs with a _shuttle_ once and I’m here to tell the tale.”

“Yeah. Because that was _you_ at the commands.”

“Hiss. A TIE is just a weapon with a suicidal pilot. Clumsy in atmosphere, a nightmare in take-off or landing outside of its own platform, a fucking brittle thing with no hyperdrive. X-Wings are spacecrafts, and versatile ones at that. You saw how my wings made me able to avoid most of the gas giant storms.”

“I guess. Yeah. I’ll try the X-Wing next time.”

Poe rubs at his eyes and leans back into the seat. “Good,” he says. “It’s great that you’ve finally seen the light.”

“Headache?” asks Hiss as he takes his time to unbuckle.

“Nah. Thank the Force, I haven’t had one since the surgery. I’m just tired.” He’s fucking exhausted, much more than he should be after so short a run, but he’ll be damned if he lets it show. “And I’m rusty,” he adds when taking a look at the scores.

“You, uh, what?”

“Rusty. Left you two openings, could have died a few times more from other causes. Guess that’s what happens when you don’t fly for five months.”

“Why don’t you go back to it, then? I thought it was your life.”

“Not all my life,” Poe says, thinking of Finn, and of Kes, and Freia, and BB-8 and all the others – Hiss, too. “And even if it was, wouldn’t be right for me to risk the life of others and a ship the Resistance can’t afford to lose because I miss flying. I’ve had debilitating migraines for so long, could still have one. Or I could panic. I’m – I’m not ready, Hiss.”

“Oh, and when will you be, Poe Dameron who once was a slave? You flew, as a slave, didn’t you? That fucking shuttle. Go on, Poe. Go back up. Stop being a coward. Your migraines are gone and I thought you were good at facing your fears, instead of avoiding them, huh? With all they say you survived as a slave, don’t tell me that confronting a cockpit and a few enemy ships would be so hard”

 _What I survived_ , Poe thinks, shit, what does she know, guess, what did she hear? For an instant it makes him feel dirty inside, and broken, and then he feels the anger boil up, wants to lash at her for bringing it up. She might see it because she recoils, a small bit of her conditioning resurfacing, an old reaction at the anger of a ranking officer. _Shit_.

“If I fly again,” he says instead, “I won’t be here so much to, uh, don’t wanna say teach you, uh, entertain you.”

“Yeah? And you think I won’t manage? That I’ll pine and cry until I break down, maybe?”

He smiles. “What I’m really afraid of is that you’ll get bored and find a way to fly back to the First Order with all the Resistance schedules and half our plans.”

“No fucking way,” Hiss, well, hisses. The trick is not to laugh. Or even smirk.

“I’ve been wondering, you know,” says Poe and he’s not completely kidding.

“With the amount of insubordination I’ve shown since I’ve been here, I’d have been sent to reconditioning on a monthly basis,” she says. “I like my freedom. You said, once, you said it’s nice to get orders you can ignore. I agree.”

“What do you want, then? You don’t look so enamoured with the Resistance.”

“I want to fly for you, Commander. So get your shit together and go up again.”

“Ah, _cadet_. Thing is, nobody flies _for_ me. Pilots flew _under_ me, once. But _for_ the Resistance. Think you want to do that? Then you go tell General Organa, and then you wait until you’re old enough, dammit, so that your first mission isn’t your last.”

“I will. If it’s what it takes,” she says. She looks serious.

“They’ll call you Elena.”

“Don’t care. I’ll still be Hiss inside. I’ll teach them.”

It’s tight in the sim, side by side like that, hard to avoid a stare when someone’s looking. He tries, though. Looks at his feet, looks at that old tech jumpsuit she seems to favour. It’s much too large. She’s small for her age, he realises, scrawny and always covered in scratches and bumps, not a Stormtrooper cadet anymore, still a child. But when he finds the courage to look her in the eyes her gaze feels as old and wise as Maz Kanata’s.

“Poe Dameron,” she says. “You know who you are inside. A pilot. And if you don’t acknowledge it sooner or later it’s going to destroy you. Go up in space. You need it. Your pilots need it. They still fly _under_ you, didn’t you notice? They haven’t moved the ranks. Their callsigns are the same. They’re waiting for Black Leader to come back.”

“But I’m not the one they’re waiting for. Not anymore.”

“No, you’re not. I’m not a Stormtrooper anymore, and you’re not that guy. Neither are you the slave. Doesn’t mean you’re not good enough.” She smirks. “Did I tell you I managed to climb the fence this time? Forced the hangar backdoor open, too. Saw your old X-Wing in the back, the black one. She’s beautiful.”

Is she still, he thinks, which is ridiculous, and makes him realise how much he misses her. I could, he thinks. I could take her up, at least for a test flight, just to see – just to remember how it was before. People would see, of course. They would hope.

Maybe he’s healed enough that he’s ready to let them hope.

/

“You’re going up for real,” says Finn.

Poe’s fully suited, the Commander badge kind of feeling heavy on his chest under the lifesaving gear.

“Nothing to call home about,” he says. “Escort mission, but more as a honour guard than anything else. I’ll be back tonight.”

“Well,” Finn smiles. “Don’t get yourself killed.”

He won’t. He won’t, even if it’s bad luck to say it aloud. For the love of this man, he won’t. “Kiss me?” he says, and doesn’t wait for the answer to bend in.

/

“Black Leader to Blue Squadron,” he says in the com, “report in.”

Among the successive acknowledgements, one stands out.

“Blue Three to Black Leader,” Jess Pava calls. “standing by. Poe, I’m fucking glad you’re up in space with us. Welcome back.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done. Feel sad. Thank you for reading along!
> 
> Writing this level of darkfic and noncon was an experience. It's certainly harder than just reading one. I hope I didn't squick some of you too much. Sometimes I just thought I was keeping the bad guys in character, especially Alua and realised only when reading the comments how hard and violent it made the story. (And yeah, sure, in accordance with the rules of the genre, but still.)
> 
> I like this story, anyway. Its length, the fun I had with the plot, the characterisations and the OCs. The incredible power you get from publishing a story when it's (more or less) DONE! And yes, the dark parts.
> 
> Freia hasn't gotten her first child back. Yet. Maybe her and Kes are going to roam the galaxy, freeing slaves and looking for Freia's son. Who knows.
> 
> Also, if amnesiac!Poe were straight he'd be a dead ringer for Duncan Idaho in Dune Messiah. That's it. Oscar Isaac as Duncan Idaho!


End file.
